THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 
OF  CIML  WAR  NOVELS 
PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


<. 


\ 


.!» 


i-  ' 


j^yiEROOiXEcr 


[From  the  Nei;v  York  Lodger.] 


:^rOBWOOD; 


OR, 


VILLAGE  LIFE  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 


BY 


HENRY  WARD  BEECHER. 


NEW    YORK : 
CHARLES    SCRIBXER    &    COMPANY 

1868. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1867,  by 

ROBERT    BONNER, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  Disti-ict  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 

District  of  New  York. 


TROW  ft  SMITH  BOOK  MANUFACTURING  COMPANY^ 

PRINTERg,  STEREOTYPERS,  AlfD  ELECTROTYPEBS, 

4€,  48,  50  GREENE  STREET,  NEW  YORK. 


PEEFAOE. 


Befoee  the  Civil  War,  I  had  for  several  years  been  a 
regular  contributor  to  the  New  York  Ledgee.  During 
that  great  conflict  I  had  almost  entirely  ceased  writing 
for  it.  But  when  the  war  was  closed,  I  was  not  unwil- 
ling to  seek  rest  or  relaxation  from  the  exhausting  excite- 
ment of  public  affairs,  by  turning  my  mind  into  entirely 
new  channels  of  thought  and  interest. 

In  this  mood  I  received  Mr.  Bonner's  proposal  to  write 
a  story  for  the  Ledgee.  Had  it  been  a  request  to  carve 
a  statue  or  build  a  man-of-war,  the  task  would  hardly 
have  seemed  less  likely  of  accomplishment.  A  very 
moderate  reader,  even,  of  fictions,  I  had  never  studied  the 
mystery  of  their  construction.  Plot  and  counterplot,  the 
due  proportion  of  parts,  the  whole  machinery  of  a  novel, 
seemed  hopelessly  outside  of  my  studies.  But  after-con- 
siderations came  to  my  relief.  I  reflected  that  any  real 
human  experience  was  intrinsically  interesting ;  that  the 
life  of  a  humble  family  for  a  single  day,  even  if  not  told 
as  skilfully  as  Wordsworth  sung  the  humble  aspects  of 
the  natural  world,  or  as  minutely  faithful  as  Crabbe  de- 
picted English  village-life,  could  hardly  fail  to  Avin  some 
interest.  The  habit  of  looking  upon  men  as  the  children 
of  God,  and  heirs  of  immortality,  can  hardly  fail  to  clothe 
the  simplest  and  most  common  elements  of  daily  life  with 
importance,  and  even  with  dignity.  Nothing  is  trivial  in 
the  education  of  the  King's  Son ! 

By  interesting  my  readers,  if  I  could,  in  the  ordinary 
experiences  of  daily  life  among  the  common  people,  not  so 
much  by  dramatic  skill  as  by  a  subtle  sympathy  with 
Nature,  and  by  a  certain   largeness  of  moral   feeling,  T 

602715 


vi  Preface. 

hoped  to  inspire  a  pleasure  which,  if  it  did  not  rise  very 
high,  might,  on  that  account,  perhaps,  continue  the  longer. 
I  had  rather  know  that  one  returned  ascain  and  acrain  to 
parts  of  this  most  leisurely  narrative,  than  that  he  de- 
voured it  all  in  a  single  passionate  hour,  and  then  turned 
away  from  it  sated  and  forgetful. 

I  can  only  wish  that  all  who  use  the  pen  might  fall  into 
hands  as  kind,  as  considerate,  and  as  forbearing,  as  I  have. 
N'orwood  was  mostly  written  in  Peekskill.  There  is  not 
a  single  unpleasant  memory  connected  with  it.  It  was  a 
summer-child,  brought  up  among  flowers  and  trees. 

AYhen  the  last  sheet  of  the  manuscript  of  Norwood 
was  ready  for  the  press,  I  sent  the  following  letter 
with  it : 

"  My  dear  Me.  Bonner  : — You  have  herewith  the  last 
line  of  Norwood.  I  began  it  reluctantly,  as  one  who 
treads  an  unexplored  path.  But  as  I  went  on,  I  took  more 
kindly  to  my  work,  and  now  that  it  is  ended  I  shall  quite 
miss  my  weekly  task. 

"  My  dear  old  father,  after  his  day  of  labor  had  closed, 
used  to  fancy  that  in  some  way  he  was  so  connected  with 
me  that  he  was  still  at  work ;  and  on  one  occasion,  after  a 
Sabbath-morning  service,  some  one  in  a  congratulatory 
way  said  to  the  venerable  and  meek  old  patriarch  : 

"  '  Well,  Doctor,  how  did  you  like  your  son's  sermon  ? ' 

"  '  It  was  good — good  as  I  could  do  myself.'  And  then, 
with  an  emphatic  pointing  of  his  forefinger,  he  added, 
'  If  it  hadn't  been  for  we,  you'd  never  have  had  him ! ' 

"  If  any  body  likes  Norwood,  my  dear  and  venerable 
IVIr.  Bonner,  you  can  poke  him  with  your  finger  and  say, 
'  If  it  hadn't  been  for  me,  you  would  never  have  had  it.' " 

No  one  can  imagine  how  true  is  the  last  paragraph 
of  the  letter  above.  To  all  the  other  pleasant  associations 
of  Norwood,  Mr.  Bonner  has,  by  his  more  than  fraternal 
kindness,  added  the  highest  and  most  enduring  charm  of 
a  generous  friendship. 


C  OIiTTEH"TS. 


PAGB 

CHAPTER  I. 
Introduction 1 


CHAPTER  n. 
'BiAH  Cathcart 6 

CHAPTER  III. 
Rachel  Liscomb 9 

CHAPTER  IV. 
Starting  in  Life ^ 14 

CHAPTER  V. 
The  WentwortiIs 19 

CHAPTER  VI. 
TVandering  Thoughts 28 

CHAPTER  Vn. 
A  Merry  Chapter 40 

CHAPTER  Vin. 
A  Sober  Chapter 50 

CHAPTER  IX. 
Agate  Bissell 62 

CHAPTER  X. 
Dr.  Wentworth's  Mansion 67 


vm  Contents. 

'  FAGB 

CHAPTER  XI. 
Rose-Culture 75 


CHAPTER  XII. 
Pete  Sawmill 83 

CHAPTER  Xlir. 
Rose  a>t)  Alice 88 

CHAPTER  Xiy. 
The  Night  Fishing 97 

CHAPTER  XV. 
Lights  and  Shadows 102 

CHAPTER  XYI. 
Stories  for  Children 107 

CHAPTER  XVn. 
A  New-England  Sunday 120 

CHAPTER  XYIIL 
The  Subject  Continued 131 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
Going  to  College 141 

CHAPTER  XX. 
Consultations 147 

CHAPTER  XXI. 
Mental  Philosophy. — (To  be  Read  or  Skipped.) 159 

CHAPTER  XXn 
Twilight  Dawn 165 


Contents, 


IX 


FA  OB 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 
A  Confession 171 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 
The  Farewells IVY 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
Frank  Esel 187 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 
Rose  Wentworth's  Art  School 19*7 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 
A  Talk  about  Enjoying  Money 209 

CHAPTER  XXVm. 
A  New  Life 220 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 
Leaving  College 225 

CHAPTER  XXX. 
Doctor  Buell's  Sorrow 241 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 
The  Two  Sextons 255 

CHAPTER  XXXIL 
The  Fruit  of  Sorrow 261 

CHAPTER  XXXm. 
Tom  Heywood 276 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
Heywood  Returns — Esel  Departs  .      289 


X  Contents. 

PAOB 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 
Contrasts 304 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
Varieties 315 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
Nutting — Its  Joys  and  Disasters 330 

CHAPTER  XXXVin. 
Convalescence 348 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 
The  Old  Man's  Journey 358 

CHAPTER  XL. 
Faith  Rekindled 370 

CHAPTER  XLI. 
Change  op  Latitude 379 

CHAPTER  XLIL 
Bombardment  op  Fort  Sumter. — ^Hetwood's  Letter  Continued..  388 

CHAPTER  XLm. 
The  Arousing 899 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 
Echoes  from  the  North 407 

CHAPTER  XLV. 
First-Fruits 415 

CHAPTER  XL VI 
Consolation 422 


Contents. 


XI 


PAOB 

CHAPTER  XLVII. 
After-Fruits 429 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 
A  New  Life 442 

CHAPTER  XLIX. 
Thanksgiving 452 

CHAPTER  L. 
On  the  March 460 

CHAPTER  LI. 
Gettysburg 4*70 

CHAPTER  LIL 
The  Last  Endeavor 489 

CHAPTER  LIII. 
The  Mountain  Covert 503 

CHAPTER  LIV. 
A  Night  and  a  Day  in  the  Mountains 510 

CHAPTER  LV. 
The  Surprise 520 

CHAPTER  LVI. 
The  Quaker  Home 529 

CHAPTER  LVII. 
The  Elm  Tree 640 


1* 


NORWOOD; 

OR, 

VILLAGE  LIFE  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 


CHAPTER  I. 

INTKODUCTION. 


Since  the  introduction  of  railways,  tlionsands  of  curious  travel- 
lers every  summer  have  thronged  New  England,  have  seen  its 
manufacturing  villages,  and  admired  its  general  thrift.  But  those 
who  know  its  scenery  only  by  the  river-valleys,  know  little  of  it ; 
and  those  who  have  seen  its  people  only  in  cities,  are  little  ac- 
quainted with  New-England  character. 

Men  speak  of  Yankee  character,  as  if  there  was  but  one  type 
which  pervaded  New  England.  It  is  true,  that  there  are  some  few 
marks  which  New-England  men  have  in  common.  But  the  differ- 
ences are  greater  than  the  likenesses.  Nowhere  else  in  the  nation 
are  men  so  differentiated.  The  loose  structure  of  Southern  society 
gave  to  its  citizens  an  appearance  of  greater  personal  freedom ;  and 
in  the  great  Western  States  various  causes  have  produced  far  more 
freedom  of  manners,  and  more  frankness  and  spontaneous  geniality. 
Yet  it  will  be  found  that  neither  in  the  South,  nor  in  the  West,  is 
there  so  large  a  proportion  of  the  population  which  is  original, 
contrasted,  and  individualized  in  taste,  manners  and  opinions,  as  in 
New  England.  If  we  should  employ  a  scientific  method,  and  speak 
of  a  Western  genus,  and  a  Southern  genus,  and  a  Middle  State 
genus,  then  it  will  be  found,  that  none,  nor  all,  are  so  rich  in  sj^ecies^ 
as  the  genus  New  England. 

The  scenery  of  New  England  is  picturesque  rather  than  grand. 
Scarcely  any  other  excursion  could  be  planned  which  would  so 
well  fill  a  summer  vacation,  as  one  which,  winding  leisurely  up 


2  Norwood ;  or  J 

through  the  western  portions  of  Connecticut,  of  Massachusetts,  and 
of  Vermont,  reached  a  climax  at  St.  Albans,  on  the  eastern  shore 
of  Lake  Champlain ;  a  place  in  the  midst  of  greater  variety  of 
scenic  beauty  than  any  other  that  I  remember  in  America.  On  the 
east  rise  the  successive  masses  of  the  White  Mountains,  seemingly 
close  at  hand ;  on  the  "west  is  Lake  Champlain,  swarming  with 
green  islands,  and  beyond  its  waters,  westward,  rise  the  Adiron- 
dacs,  not  in  chains  or  single  peaks,  but  in  vast  broods,  a  promiscu- 
ous multitude  of  forest-clothed  mountains.  On  the  north  is  scooped 
out  in  mighty  lines  the  valley  of  the  St.  Lawrence ;  and,  in  clear 
days,  the  eye  may  spy  the  faint  glimmer  of  Montreal. 

Such  a  ride  from  New  Ilaven  to  St.  Albans,  from  Long  Island 
Sound  to  Lake  Champlain,  can  scarcely  be  matched  for  the  charms 
of  its  scenery,  the  number  and  beauty  of  its  villages,  for  the  general 
intelligence  and  culture  of  its  people,  for  the  universal  thrift  follow- 
ing universal  industry,  and  for  crisp  originalities  of  character. 

The  maritime  population  of  Xew  England  is  very  unlike  all  the 
rest.  The  foreign  element  has  greatly  modified  society.  Com- 
merce and  manufacturing  have  worn  away  many  of  the  primitive 
New  England  traits ;  and  the  wealth  and  refinement  of  the  cities 
have  to  some  extent  overlaid  the  peculiar  Xew  England  element 
by  a  cosmopolitan  gilding.  The  remote  neighborhoods  and  hill- 
towns  yet  retain  the  manners,  morals,  institutions,  customs  and 
religion  of  the  fathers.  The  interior  villages  of  New  England  are 
her  brood-combs. 

Our  simple  story  of  domestic  life  will  take  us  to  a  point  interme- 
diate between  the  rugged  simplicity  of  mountain  towns  and  the 
easier  life  of  the  cities. 

A  traveller  going  north  from  Springfield,  in  Massachusetts,  soon 
perceives  before  him  an  abrupt  barrier,  running  east  and  west, 
which,  if  compared  with  the  country  on  either  side,  might  be  called 
mountainous.  The  two  westernmost  summits  are  Mount  Tom  and 
Mount  Holyoke.  By  a  narrow  passage  between  them  comes 
through  the  Connecticut  Eiver.  Passing  between  these  hill- 
mountains,  we  enter  a  great  valley  or  basin,  some  twelve  miles 
wide  and  thirty  long,  which  one  might  easily  imagine  to  have  been 
once  a  lake;  the  Pelham  hills  on  the  east,  Sugar-loaf  on  the  north, 
and  the  Holyoke  range  on  the  south,  forming  barriers  on  three 
sides,  while  its  waters  on  the  west  were  stayed  by  the  slopes  of 


..,v 


ViUac/e  Life  in  New  En(/land.  3 

those  hills  wliich,  in  the  middle  of  western  Massachusetts,  are  all 
that  remain  of  the  famous  Green  Mountains. 

Look- with  my  eyes,  good  reader,  upon  the  town  of  Norwood, 
that,  refusing  to  go  down  upon  the  fat  bottom-lands  of  the  Con- 
necticut, daintily  perches  itself  upon  the  irregular  slopes  west,  and 
looks  over  upon  that  transcendent  valley  from  under  its  beautiful 
shade  trees,  and  you  will  say  that  no  fairer  village  glistens  in  the 
sunlight,  or  nestles  under  arching  elms  !  It  is  a  wonder  that  Nor- 
wood was  ever  allowed  to  venture  so  near  to  the  low  grounds  of 
the  Connecticut ;  for  it  was  early  settled,  not  far  from  thirty  years 
after  the  Pilgrims'  landing.  How  the  temptation  to  build  upon 
the  top  of  the  highest  hill  was  resisted,  we  know  not. 

Did  the  New  England  settler  alight  upon  hill-tops,  like  a  senti- 
nel, or  a  hawk  upon  the  topmost  bough,  to  spy  danger  at  its  first 
appearing  ?  Or  had  he  some  unsconscious  sense  of  the  poetic  beauty 
of  the  scriptural  city  set  upon  a  hill — some  Jerusalem,  lifted  up, 
and  seen  from  afar,  in  all  its  beauty?  Or  was  he  willing  to  face 
the  sturdy  winds  of  New-England  hill-tops,  rather  than  to  take  the 
risk  of  malaria  in  the  softer  air  of  her  valleys  ?  Whatever  the 
reason,  the  chosen  spot  in  early  days  seems  to  have  been  a  high 
and  broad-backed  hill,  where  the  summer  came  last,  and  departed 
earliest ;  where,  while  it  lingered,  it  was  purest  and  sweetest ; 
where  winter  was  most  austere,  and  its  winds  roared  among  the 
trees,  and  shook  the  framed  houses  with  such  awful  grandeur,  that 
children  needed  nothing  more  to  awaken  in  their  imagination  the 
great  Coming  Judgment,  and  the  final  consuming  storms,  when  the 
earth  should  be  shaken  and  should  pass  away ! 

Norwood,  a  town  of  five  thousand  inhabitants,  like  hundreds 
of  other  New  England  towns,  had  in  a  general  and  indistinct  way 
an  upper,  middle  and  lower  class.  A  wholesome  jealousy  of  their 
rights,  and  a  suspicion  among  the  poor  that  wealth  and  strength 
always  breed  danger  to  the  weak,  made  the  upper  class — who  were 
ranked  so  by  their  wealth,  by  their  superior  culture,  and  by  the 
antiquity  of  their  families  in  town — politically  weaker  than  any 
other. 

The  middle  class  comprised,  the  great  body  of  the  people, 
all  dependent  upon  their  skill  and  activity  for  a  living,  and  all 
striving  to  amass  property  enough  to  leave  their  families  at  their 
death  in  independent  circumstances. 


*  Norwood ;  or, 

The  lower  class  of  a  New  England  village  is  chiefly  composed 
of  the  hangers-on — those  who  are  ignorant  and  imbecile,  and  es- 
pecially those  who,  for  want  of  moral  health,  have  sunk,  like  sedi- 
ment, to  the  bottom.  Perhaps  nowhere  in  the  world  can  be  found 
more  unlovely  wickedness — a  malignant,  bitter,  tenacious  hatred 
of  good — than  in  New  England.  The  good  are  very  good,  and  the 
bad  are  very  bad.  The  high  moral  tone  of  public  sentiment,  in 
many  New -England  towns,  and  its  penetrating  and  almost  inquis- 
itorial character,  either  powerfully  determines  men  to  do  good,  or 
chafes  and  embitters  them.  This  is  especially  true  when,  in  certain 
cases,  good  men  are  so  thoroughly  intent  upon  public  morality  that 
the  private  individual  has  scarcely  any  choice  left.  Under  such  a 
pressure  some  men  act  in  open  wickedness  out  of  spite,  and  some 
secretly ;  and  the  bottom  of  society  wages  clandestine  war  with 
the  top. 

But,  fortunately  for  Norwood,  the  public  sentiment,  though 
strong  and  high  in  moral  tone,  had  been  by  peculiar  influences  so 
tempered  with  kindness,  that,  far  less  than  in  surrounding  places, 
was  there  a  class  of  fierce  castaways  at  the  bottom. 

The  main  street  of  Norwood  was  irregular,  steadily  seeking" 
higher  ground  to  its  extreme  western  limit.  It  would  have  had 
no  claims  to  beauty  had  it  not  been  rich  in  the  peculiar  glory  of 
New  England — its  Elm-trees  1  No  town  can  fail  of  beauty,  though 
its  walks  were  gutters,  and  its  houses  hovels,  if  venerable  trees 
make  magnificent  colonnades  along  its  streets.  Of  all  trees,  no 
other  unites,  in  the  same  degree,  majesty  and  beauty,  grace  arid 
grandeur,  as  the  American  Elm!  Known  from  north  to  south, 
through  a  range  of  twelve  hundred  miles,  and  from  the  Atlantic 
to  the  head  waters  of  the  rivers  which  flow  into  the  western  side 
of  the  Mississippi,  yet,  in  New  England,  the  elm  is  found  in  its 
greatest  size  and  beauty,  fully  justifying  Michaux's  commendation 
of  it  to  European  cultivators,  as  "  the  most  magnificent  vegetable 
of  the  Temperate  Zone."  Though  a  lover  of  moisture  and  rich- 
nes?,  the  elm  does  not  flourish  so  well  upon  pure  vegetable  soils  as 
on  intervale  lands,  stronger  in  mineral  ingredients  than  river 
meadows. 

Single  spots,  finer  than  any  in  New  England,  there  may  be  in 
other  lands;  but  such  a  series  of  villages  over  such  a  breadth  of 
country,  amidst  so  much  beauty  of  scenery,   enriched,  though 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  5 

with  charmiug  and  inexpensive  simplicity,  with  so  much  heauty  of 
garden,  yard,  and  dwelling,  cannot  elsewhere  be  found  upon  the 
globe.  No  man  has  seen  America,  who  has  not  become  familiar 
with  the  villages  of  New  England  and  the  farms  of  the  North- 
western States.  Yet  every  one  will  confess  that  a  large  part  of 
this  scenic  beauty  of  New  England  is  contributed  by  trees, — and 
particularly  by  the  elm.  The  Elms  of  New  England  !  They  are  as 
much  a  part  of  her  beauty  as  the  columns  of  the  Parthenon  were 
the  glory  of  its  architecture. 

Their  towering  trunks,  whose  massiveness  well  symbolizes 
Puritan  inflexibility;  their  over-archtng  tops,  facile,  wind-borne 
and  elastic,  hint  the  endless  plasticity  and  adaptableness  of  this 
people ; — and  both  united,  form  a  type  of  all  true  manhood,  broad 
at  the  root,  firm  in  the  trunk,  and  yielding  at  the  top,  yet  return- 
ing again,  after  every  impulse,  into  position  and  symmetry.  "What 
if  they  were  sheered  away  from  village  and  farm  house  ?  "Who 
would  know  the  land  ?  Farm-houses  that  now  stop  the  tourist 
and  the  artist,  would  stand  forth  bare  and  homely ;  and  villages 
that  coquette  with  beauty  through  green  leaves,  would  shine 
white  and  ghastly  as  sepulchres.  Let  any  one  imagine  Conway  or 
Lancaster  without  elms !  Or  Hadley,  Hatfield,  Northampton,  or 
Springfield!  New  Haven  without  elms  would  be  like  Jupiter 
without  a  beard,  or  a  lion  shaved  of  his  mane  ! 

And  so,  reader,  as  one  loves  to  approach  a  mansion  through  an 
avenue  of  elms,  we  have  led  you  through  a  short  discourse  of 
trees,  to  our  homely  story. 


CHAPTER  n. 

ABIAHCATHCAET. 

Abiah  Cathoaet  was  an  honorable  specimen  of  aiN'ew^-England 
farmer.  Any  one  accustomed  to  judge  of  men  would  see  at  a 
glance  that  he  did  not  belong  to  that  class  of  farmer-drudges,  who 
tease  Nature  for  a  living,  and  make  up  for  lack  of  skill  and 
knowledge  of  their  business  by  an  insatiable  and  tormenting 
industry.  He  thought  out  his  work,  and  then  worked  out  his 
thoughts.  He  was  a  man  of  great  bodily  strength ;  of  calmness 
and  patience,  joined  to  an  inflexible  will.  His  face  accurately  re- 
corded his  nature.  It  was  large-framed,  not  mobile,  but  clear  and 
open  in  expression  ;  it  exhibited  more  of  goodness  and  wisdom, 
than  of  feeling  or  imagination.  Had  he  been  clothed  in  the 
habiliments  and  seated  on  the  bench  of  a  court,  every  one  would 
have  said,  "  He  looks  every  inch  a  judge." 

He  received  from  his  parents  a  healthy  body,  a  sound  judg- 
ment, habits  of  industry,  a  common-school  education,  and  besides, 
nothing  ; — save  their  good  name  and  wholesome  example.  In  all 
his  boyhood,  and  till  he  was  eighteen  years  old,  he  had  probably 
never  altogether  had  five  dollars  of  " spending  money"  from  his 
father.  He  used  to  tell  his  own  boys,  afterward,  with  some  quiet 
pride,  that  he  had  never  spent  for  mere  pleasure  a  single  dollar 
which  he  had  not  himself  earned  by  hard  work.  He  believed  it  to 
be  almost  immoral  to  spend  property  which  had  not  been  season- 
ed by  one's  own  toil  or  skill.  He  used  to  say  that  pleasure  was 
wholesome  and  indispensable  when  one  had  earned  a  right  to  it, 
but  that  amusement  got  for  nothing  relaxed  a  man  and  demoral-  • 
ized  him. 

When  he  was  eighteen  years  old,  Cathcart  bought  his  time  of 
his  father  for  two  hundred  dollars.  These  were  considered  very 
liberal  terms  in  those  days.  A  son's  services  for  three  years  be- 
fore his  majority  were  no  small  part  of  the  working  capital  of  a 
small  farm. 

Being  master  of  his  time,  he  considered  and  made  an  inventory 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  *j 

of  his  goods  and  properties.  First,  there  was  a  good  stout  body, 
six  feet  high  and  well  developed ;  a  face  and  head  that  an  honest 
man  need  not  be  ashamed  to  carry  through  the  world.  Next,  he 
had  a  suit  of  new  woollen  clothes,  and  one  old  suit ;  six  pairs  of 
woollen  stockings,  which  his  mother's  own  hands  had  knit  from 
wool  which  grew,  under  his  own  eye,  on  his  father's  flock ;  a  pair 
of  new  thick  boots  for  Sundays,  an  every-day  pair,  an  axe,  a  brave 
heart — honest  and  steadfast ;  this  was  all  that  he  carried  out  of 
his  father's  house.  No !  He  carried  likewise  his  father's  blessing, 
— unspoken,  but  not  the  less  real ;  and  his  mother's  prayers, 
silent  and  gentle,  but  which  could  never  miss  the  road  to  the 
throne  of  all  bounty  I 

Life  was  before  him.  He  did  not  waver  an  hour  as  to  his  plans. 
He  was  a  farmer's  son,  he  knew  how  to  work,  and  by  work  he 
meant  to  thrive.  His  vision  of  success  was  not  extravagant — a 
homestead  and  a  family ;  and  property  to  support  and  educate  his 
children  until  they  should  be  old  enough  to  take  care  of  them- 
selves.   This  was  the  measure  of  his  dream. 

This  ought  not  to  seem  difficult.  And  it  would  not  be,  in  new 
regions  where  land  may  be  had  for  a  nominal  price,  and  where 
the  climate  prolongs  the  summer,  while  it  straitens  the  winter 
within  narrow  bounds.  But  in  old  New  England,  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  large  towns,  where  land  is  expensive,  summers  short, 
winters  long,  and  the  soil  not  indulgent,  yielding  its  moderate 
crops  to  coercion  rather  than  to  coaxing,  it  is  not  easy  for  a  man 
who  has  only  his  own  hands  for  a  capital  to  buy  a  farm,  stock  it, 
earn  upon  it  the  means  of  paying  for  it,  and  at  the  same  time  to 
support  a  growing  family. 

This  did  Abiah  Cathcart  by  intelligent  industry  and  sturdy 
perseverance.  Not  a  thing  did  he  ever  get  by  craft.  And  who 
shall  blame  his  honest  pride,  afterward,  when  he  was  wealthy, 
that  he  had'created  his  own  fortune?  Wealth  created  without  spot 
or  blemish  is  an  honest  man's  peerage ;  and  to  be  proud  of  it  is 
his  right.  It  is  not  the  empty  pride  of  money,  but  pride  of  skill, 
of  patience,  of  labor,  of  perseverance,  and  of  honor,  which 
wrought  and  secured  the  wealth ! 

When  he  left  his  father's  house  he  hired  out  at  teaming,  twelve 
dollars  a  month  and  found.  Cathcart  had  this  sign  of  a  sound 
nature — that  he  loved  a  horse.     His  employer  gave  him  some  dis- 


8        '  Norwood, 

cretion  in  buying  and  selling;  and  soon,  by  purchase  and  ex- 
change, Cathcart  had  made  up  the  best  team  in  the  neighborhood. 
Nothing  -went  over  the  road  that  everybody  stared  at  more  than 
his  horses.  It  pleased  him  to  see  men  pull  up,  look  over  the 
horses,  and  exclaim : 

"  That's  a  team  for  you !  I  say,  mister,  wiH  you  sell  those 
horses?" 

He  was  pleased  almost  every  day.  His  horses  were  moderately 
large  but  compact,  and  the  very  models  of  strength.  Look  at  them ! 
The  fine  ear,  the  clean  and  finished  look  of  their  heads,  and,  above 
all,  the  large,  lively  eyes  that  easily  change  expression,  and  you 
will  see  that  they  have  nerve  as  well  as  muscle.  If  you  doubt,  you 
should  see  them  when  a  heavy  load  threatens  to  stall  them;  the 
rousing,  the  excitement,  the  prodigious  swell  of  muscles,  and,  when 
the  load  is  safely  brought  up  or  through,  the  nervous  fiash  of  the 
eye,  and  the  restless  champ  upon  the  bit !  He  loved  their  com- 
pany— loved  to  feed  them — loved  to  take  his  book  (he  was  ever 
and  always  a  reader)  at  noon,  after  his  frugal  meal  was  done,  and 
sit  by  his  team,  while  the  horses  ground  their  oats,  or  cracked  and 
craunched  their  Indian  corn.  Do  you  wonder,  reader,  at  such 
pleasure  ?  Then  you  know  little  of  some  scenes  of  life.  Ask  an 
old  Western  wagoner,  what  have  been  the  happiest  hours  of  his 
life — and  he  will  tell  yon — 

"Well,  stranger,  I've  seen  some  pretty  jolly  times.  But,  for 
solid  comfort,  I  think  I've  enjoyed  the  most  when  I  was  laying  in 
my  wagon  near  a  creek,  and  the  fire  was  flickering  among  the 
trees,  and  I  was  jest  goin'  to  sleep — I  think  I  never  heard  anything 
quite  so  pleasant  as  my  horses,  at  both  ends  of  the  wagon,  chankin 
corn!" 

His  employer  died.  It  being  autumn,  Cathcart  engaged  to  clear 
off  a  piece  of  mountain  wood,  and  haul  it  to  town,  at  so  much  a 
cord.  Doing  well  at  this,  the  next  fall  he  took  a  contract  for 
making  charcoal,  and  became  almost  a  hermit  in  the  woods — 
chopping,  piling,  and  tending  the  heap ;  and,  until  he  had  com- 
pleted the  job,  living  in  a  shanty  of  his  own  construction. 

In  summer,  he  worked  upon  the  farm,  getting  fair  wages ;  and 
thus,  in  five  years,  he  found  himself  rich — for  he  had  earned  a 
thousand  dollars  and  won  a  royal  woman's  heart. 


CHAPTER  in. 

EACHEL      LISCOMB. 

Eaohel  Lisoomb,  daughter  of  Deacon  Liscomb — tall,  slender, 
straight,  with  black  hair  and  dark  eyes,  a  brunette— looked  at  him 
one  day  as  they  walked  home  from  meeting,  with  a  look  that  he 
never  got  over.  She  was  one  of  the  few  without  gifts  of  speech, 
whose  bearing  and  looks  are  a  full  equivalent  for  speech.  A  far- 
mer's daughter — she  was  well-practised  in  work.  But,  a  Kew- 
England  woman,  she  was  of  a  deep  moral  nature  and  reflectively 
intelligent.  One  who  looked  for  attractive  manners  would  pass 
her  by  unseen.  Like  a  geode,  the  exterior  was  homely,  the  crystals 
were  dark-chambered  within. 

Upon  her  rested  the  thoughts  of  Abiah  Cathcart.  She  went  but 
little  from  home,  except  on  Sunday  to  church,  and  to  the  singing- 
school.  But  twice  had  Cathcart  visited  her  father's  house,  and  yet 
for  a  year,  when  they  met,  both  hid  or  strove  to  hide  a  sensibility 
of  which  neither  was  ashamed,  but  which  each  was  ashamed  to  feel 
without  some  sign  that  the  other  felt  it  too.  Our  finer  feelings  are 
like  the  evening  primrose,  all  the  sunlight  but  shuts  them  closer. 
And  yet,  when  evening  comes  and  dews  are  falling,  if  you  will 
watch,  you  shall  see  the  twilight  with  gentle  influence  unroll  them 
one  by  one,  with  visible  motion,  each  blossom  throwing  forth,  as 
it  opens,  its  offering  of  delicate  odor. 

They  were  walking  silently  and  gravely  home  one  Sunday  after- 
noon, under  the  tall  elms  that  lined  the  street  for  half  a  mile. 
IsTeither  had  spoken.  There  had  been  some  little  parish  quarrel, 
and  on  that  afternoon  the  text  was,  "A  new  commandment  I 
write  unto  you,  that  ye  love  one  another."  But,  after  the 
sermon  was  done,  the  text  was  the  best  part  of  it.  Some  one 
said  that  Parson  Marsh's  sermons  were  like  the  meeting  house — 
the  steeple  was  the  only  thing  that  folks  could  see  after  they  got 
home. 

They  walked  slowly,  without  a  word.  Once  or  twice  'Biah 
essayed  to  speak,  but  was  still  silent.     He  plucked  a  flower  from 


10  Norwood;  or, 

between  the  pickets  of  the  fence,  and  unconsciously  pulled  it  to 
pieces,  as,  with  troubled  face,  he  glanced  at  Rachel,  and  then,  as 
fearing  she  would  catch  his  eye,  he  looked  at  the  trees,  at  the 
clouds,  at  the  grass,  at  everything,  and  saw  nothing — nothing  but 
Rachel.  The  most  solemn  hour  of  human  experience  is  not  that 
of  death,  but  of  Life — when  the  heart  is  born  again,  and  from  a 
natural  heart  becomes  a  heart  of  Love !  "What  wonder  that  it  is  a 
silent  hour  and  perplexed  ? 

Is  the  soul  confused  ?  Why  not,  when  the  divine  spirit,  rolling 
clear  across  the  aerial  ocean,  breaks  upon  the  heart's  shore  with 
all  the  mystery  of  heaven  ?  Is  it  strange  that  uncertain  lights  dim 
the  eye,  if  above  the  head  of  him  that  truly  loves  hover  clouds  of 
saintly  spirits  ?  Why  should  not  the  tongue  stammer  and  refuse 
its  accustomed  offices,  when  all  the  world — skies,  trees,  plains, 
hills,  atmosphere,  and  the  solid  earth — spring  forth  in  new  colors, 
with  strange  meanings,  and  seem  to  chant  for  the  soul  the  glory  of 
that  mystic  Law  with  which  God  has  bound  to  himself  his  infinite 
realm — the  law  of  Love  !  Then,  for  the  first  time,  when  one  so 
loves  that  love  is  sacrifice,  death  to  self,  resurrection,  and  glory,  is 
man  brought  into  harmony  with  the  whole  universe ;  and  like 
him  who  beheld  the  seventh  heaven,  hears  things  unlawful  to  be 
uttered ! 

The  great  elm  trees  sighed  as  the  fitful  breeze  swept  their  tops. 
The  soft  shadows  flitted  back  and  forth  beneath  the  walker's  feet, 
fell  upon  them  in  light  and  dark,  ran  over  the  ground,  quivered, 
and  shook,  until  sober  Cathcart  thought  that  his  heart  was  throw- 
ing its  shifting  network  of  hope  and  fear  along  the  ground  before 
him! 

How  strangely  his  voice  sounded  to  him  as,  at  length,  all  hia 
emotions  could  only  say,  "  Rachel — how  did  you  like  the  sermon  ? " 

Quietly  she  answered — 

"  I  liked  the  text." 

" '  A  new  commandment  I  write  unto  you,  that  ye  love  one 
another.'   Rachel,  will  you  help  me  keep  it  ?  " 

At  first  she  looked  down  and  lost  a  little  color ;  then,  raising  her 
face,  she  turned  upon  him  her  large  eyes,  with  a  look  both  clear 
and  tender.  It  was  as  if  some  painful  restraint  had  given  way, 
and  her  eyes  blossomed  into  fuU  beauty. 

Not  another  word  was  spoken.    They  walked  home  hand  in 


Village  Life  in  Neto  England.  ii 

hand.  He  neither  smiled  nor  exulted.  He  saw  neither  the  trees, 
nor  the  long  level  rays  of  sunlight  that  were  slanting  across  the 
fields.  His  soul  was  overshadowed  with  a  cloud  as  if  God  were 
drawing  near.  He  had  never  felt  so  solemn.  This  woman's  life 
had  been  entrusted  to  him ! 

Long  years — the  whole  length  of  life — the  eternal  years  beyond, 
seemed  in  an  indistinct  way  to  rise  up  in  his  imagination.  All 
that  he  could  say,  as  he  left  her  at  the  door,  was : 

*'  Each  el,  this  is  forever — forever." 

She  again  said  nothing,  but  turned  to  him  with  a  clear  and  open 
face,  in  which  joy  and  trust  wrought  beauty.  It  seemed  to  him 
as  if  a  light  fell  upon  him  from  her  eyes.  There  was  a  look  that 
descended  and  covered  him  as  with  an  atmosphere ;  and  all  the 
way  home  he  was  as  one  walking  in  a  luminous  cloud.  He  had 
never  felt  such  personal  dignity  as  now.  He  that  wins  such  love 
is  crowned,  and  may  call  himself  king.  He  did  not  feel  the  earth 
under  his  feet.  As  he  drew  near  his  lodgings,  the  sun  went  down. 
The  children  began  to  pour  forth,  no  longer  restrained.  Abiah 
turned  to  his  evening  chores.  Xo  animal  that  night  but  had 
reason  to  bless  him.  The  children  found  him  unusually  good  and 
tender.     And  Aunt  Keziah  said  to  her  sister : 

"  Abiah's  been  goin'  to  meetin'  very  regular  for  some  weeks, 
and  I  shouldn't  wonder,  by  the  way  he  looks,  if  he  had  got  a  hope. 
I  trust  he  ain't  deceivin'  himself." 

He  had  a  hope,  and  he  was  not  deceived ;  for  in  a  few  months, 
at  tlie  close  of  the  service  one  Sunday  morning,  the  minister  read 
from  the  pulpit:  "Marriage  is  intended  between  Abiah  Cathcait 
and  Rachel  LiscOmb,  botli  of  this  town,  and  this  is  the  first  pub- 
lishing of  the  banns."  Which  notice  was  duly  repeated  for  two 
successive  Sunday  mornings.  Then  old  Uncle  Bascom,  the  town 
clerk,  issued  the  marriage  certificate.  Uncle  Bascom  had  been 
town  clerk,  the  boys  used  to  think,  ever  since  there  was  a  town ; 
so  long  that  that  town,  without  Giles  Bascom  as  clerk,  wouldn't 
be  recognized.  It  was  one  of  the  marks,  like  the  meeting-house, 
the  brick  store,  and  Gallup's  tavern,  by  which  people  knew  that 
this  was  the  town  of  Dennis. 

One  day  there  appeared  in  the  county  paper  two  lines  :  "  Mar- 
ried : — On ,  at  the  house  of  the  hride's  father,  AMah  Catlica^i 

and  Rachel  Liscoinby 


12  Norwood ;  or, 

"What  a  slender  body  is  that  for  the  world  of  meaning  contained 
in  it ! 

From  the  hour  of  his  engagement,  Cathcart  was  a  different  man. 
Every  faculty  was  quickened,  but  most,  his  moral  nature.  He 
marvelled  with  himself  what  it  should  mean.  All  his  life  had  he 
honored  industry  and  integrity  in  thought  and  example.  But  all 
at  once  these  qualities  rose  before  him  in  a  light  of  beauty  which 
he  had  never  before  imagined.  Hundreds  of  sermons  had  he  heard 
on  virtue  and  piety.  But  now,  without  any  apparent  reason,  man- 
liness seemed  the  only  thing  worth  living  for,  and  truth  and  purity 
seemed  to  him  so  noble  that  he  strangely  hungered  for  them. 
Taught  from  his  childhood  to  reverence  God,  he  felt  suddenly 
opened  in  his  soul  a  gate  of  thanksgiving,  and  through  it  came 
also  a  multitude  of  thoughts  of  worship  and  praise.  The  world 
was  recreated  before  his  eyes.  iS  othing  before  was  ever  beautiful, 
if  judged  by  his  present  sensibility.  These  experiences  did  not 
clothe  themselves  in  language,  nor  work  out  in  ideas  and  images 
for  he  was  of  too  practical  a  nature.  But  they  filled  him  with 
tenderness  and  manliness. 

As  the  day  of  his  marriage  drew  near,  he  felt  a  thousand  reluc- 
tances and  scruples.  He  feared  that  Eachel  might  not  be  happy 
with  him — that  it  was  not  worthy  in  him  to  take  her  from  the 
plain  comforts  of  her  father's  house  to  the  toil  and  limitation  of 
his  struggling  lot — that  she  might  be  deceived  in  him,  and  not 
always  find  reason  for  such  love  as  she  now  manifested.  He  looked 
upon  her  with  reverence,  and  far  greater  than  before  he  was  admit- 
ted to  such  intimate  relations.  Her  every  word  was  simple,  every 
thought  was  truth,  every  feeling  pure ;  and  word,  thought  and 
feeling  moved  gently  upon  him  in  an  atmosphere  of  love.  He  wor- 
shipped God  with  reverence.  He  worshipped  Eachel  with  love ; 
he  came  to  her  as  one  comes  to  an  altar  or  a  shrine.  He  left  her 
as  one  who  has  seen  a  vision  of  angels. 

Outwardly,  and  in  consonance  with  the  customs  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, he  was  gay  and  jovial  at  the  wedding ;  but  down  deep  in 
his  soul  he  was  as  solemn,  before  Eachel,  as  if  God  spoke  and  he 
listened. 

How  wondrous  are  the  early  days  of  wedlock,  in  young  and 
noble  souls !  How  strange  are  the  ways  of  two  pure  souls,  wholly 
finding  each  other  out ;  between  whom  for  days  and  months  is 


Village  Life  in  New  Enc/land. 


i; 


going  on  that  silent  and  unconscious  intersphering  of  thought 
-feeling,  taste,  and  will,  by  which  two  natures  are  clasping  and 
twining  and  growing  into  each  other ! 

Happy  are  they  who  know,  and  well  Cathcart  knew,  how  to 
bring  such  wisdom  with  loving,  that  selfishness,  a  poisonous  weed, 
shall  die  out ;  and  love  clothed  with  reverence  shall  grow  and 
thrive  with  power  and  beauty,  all  one's  life !  For,  if  there  be  one 
root  in  which  .resides  the  secret  of  producing  immortal  flowers, 
it  is  Love. 


-^- 


CHAPTER  IV. 

STARTING    IX    LIFE. 

Afteh  liis  marriage,  'Biah  Cathcart,  (as  he  was  familiarly  called 
by  his  neighbors,)  not  without  mnch  thought  and  consultation, 
determined  to  buy  him  a  farm.  After  many  searchings,  and  much 
deliberatioD,  he  chose  a  place  of  sixty  acres,  two  miles  from  the 
goodly  town  of  Norwood.  There  were,  besides,  twenty  acres  of 
woodland,  lying  three  miles  away,  mountain  lots,  as  they  were  call- 
ed. On  the  home  farm  there  was  an  old-fashioned  farm-house,  of 
two  stories. 

But  instead  of  one  story  additions,  in  the  rear,  such  as  are  now 
built,  for  kitchen,  shed,  &c.,  the  rear  roof  ran  from  the  ridge-pole 
down  nearly  to  the  ground,  covering  the  two  stories  and  the  single 
story  with  one  long  slant. 

The  former  occupant  had  suffered  the  property  to  waste.  Paint 
had  long  since  ceased  to  cover  the  clapboards  on  the  sides ;  the  roof 
was  patched  and  cumbered  with  moss,  and  the  water  gutters  at 
the  eaves  had  collected  so  much  of  dust  and  decayed  leaves,  as  to 
form  little  patches  of  soil,  out  of  which  grew  a  fringe  of  mingled 
vegetation.  Both  flowers  and  weeds,  whose  seeds  had  been  lodged 
there  by  birds,  or  uplifted  by  the  winds,  -grew  lovingly  together, 
and  cast  their  slender  shadows  down  upon  the  cornice,  like  a  pencU 
tracery  of  arabesques. 

It  was  the  day  that  Dr.  TVentworth  had  been  called  to  see 
"Widow  Nance,  a  mile  beyond,  that  Cathcart  took  in  hand  the  old 
house. 

"  You  see.  Doctor,  that  I've  got  a  job  here.  Old  Templeton's 
liquor  bills  were  so  heavy  that  he  couldn't  afford  paint  or  putty." 

"  Make  a  clean  job  of  it,'  Biah.  You'll  have  to  lay  these  chim- 
ney-tops over  again ;  filling  and  pointing  won't  do.  I  suppose  you 
will  shift  your  flower  garden,  too,  from  the  roof  to  the  ground." 

"Flower  garden? " 

"  Yes,  poor  things,"  said  the  Doctor,  going  to  the  back  eaves 
and  standing  upon  an  old  wash-bench,  where  he  could  look  upon 
the  low  xoof. 


Village  Life  in  New  Eiir/lancL  15 

"  I  wish  I  had  this  old  mossy  roof,  or  one  just  like  it.  I  am 
willing  to  ride  a  mile  out  of  my  way,  any  time,  to  see  the  moss  in 
Peak's  ravine,  and  all  along  the  wood  on  each  side  of  it.  How 
kind  of  it  to  creep  over  decaying  things  and  cover  their  homeliness 
with  such  a  cheerful  garment  I  Did  you  ever  think  that  in  the  ani- 
mal kingdom  there  is  no  beauty  in  death.  A  crow,  a  dog  or  a 
wounded  deer  dies,  and  is  soon  consumed.  They  seem  to  have  had 
their  tii  le  when  alive.  But  vegetation,  with  fewer  privileges  in  life, 
has  mo'  e  comeliness  after  death.  Nobody  makes  shrouds  for  trees, 
aLd  so  nature  takes  care  of  them  and  hides  them  under  new  life— 
making  beauty  do  sexton's  work,  and  shroud  death  with  the  gar- 
ments of  life.  I  was  over  yesterday  at  the  ravine,  and  found  an  old 
tree-trunk,  half  decayed,  on  and  around  which  was  a  garden  such 
as  no  gardener  could  make.  It  lay  on  the  edge  of  the  wood ;  the 
stream  of  the  brook  had  kept  its  mosses,  of  which  I  counted  many 
species,  in  admirable  health  and  color.  Ah,  it  was  like  a  trunk  of 
emerald!  Down  on  the  south  side,  where  the  leaves  had  kept 
them  warm  all  winter,  were  blood-root  blossoms,  white  as  snow, 
shooting  up  in  squads,  like  white  troopers  mustering  for  some 
tournament ;  and  at  the  upturned  roots  was  a  tangle  of  blackberry 
vines,  as  fine  in  lines  as  any  thing  that  Raphael  ever  imitated  from 
the  ancients,  and  a  great  deal  more  beautiful.  Men's  eyes  make 
finer  pictures,  when  they  know  how  to  use  them,  than  any  body's 
hands  can." 

"  And  so,  Doctor,  I  am  to  keep  this  half-acre  of  a  roof,  am  I, 
just  out  of  pity  to  this  moss  ?  And  what'll  become  of  us  when  it 
rains,  with  this  green  old  sieve  letting  through  enough  rain  to 
dampen  every  room  in  the  house  ?  I  see — you  want  our  custom. 
Doctor !  "We  should  soon  have  moss  growling  over  us,  as  it  is  over 
oldTempleton — though, by -the-bye,  he  never  sufieredwhen  on  earth 
from  too  much  water,  I'm  thinking !  Hiram  Beers  says  he  wouldn't 
touch  it  when  he  could  get  it,  and  now  can't  get  it  when  he  wants 
it.  Hiram  is  very  hard  on  old  Templcton.  He  says  the  old  man 
was  so  hot,  that  flowers  ought  to  start  early  where  his  grave  is.  " 

"  What  a  pity  that  thrift  and  sentiment  can't  compromise  matters 
a  little  better !  It  would  make  any  gardener's  reputation  if  he  could 
plant  such  a  little  moss-Eden  as  this.  "Well,  if  you  choose  to  be 
healthy  rather  than  beautiful,  you  must  have  your  own  way.  Til 
be  back  in  a  couple  of  hours.     Widow  Nance,  poor  thing,  is  about 


16  Norwood ;  oi\ 

spent !  Save  me  some  of  the  moss — that  great  patcli  yonder,  with 
cherry-stones  heaped  along  its  upper  edge." 

And  with  that  he  carried  away  his  great  blue  eyes,  and  white 
face,  wide  at  the  top,  but  fine  and  clean  cut,  though  large-featured 
to  the  very  chin. 

"As  good  sense  at  the  bottom  as  ever  man  had,"  said  Cathcart, 
as  the  chaise  rolled  out  from  under  the  elm  trees,  in  front  of  the 
yard,  "  and  he  needs  it  all  too,  or  his  queer  notions  would  run 
away  with  him.  Rachel  says  the  Doctor's  face  and  presence  are 
better  than  most  doctors'  medicine ;  and  they  are  reviving.  I 
always  feel  after  he's  gone  as  if  there  was  more  in  every  thing 
about  me  than  I  had  any  notion  of  before,  though  I  can't  exactly 
tell  what  it  is." 

It  was  about  two  o'clock  when  Dr.  "Went worth  returned,  and,  not 
seeing  Cathcart,  he  walked  under  a  ragged  cherry-tree,  and  stood 
watching  with  a  kind  of  sober  smile  the  workmen,  inspired  with 
the  subtle  eagerness  which  the  work  of  destroying  is  apt  to  infuse. 

The  shingles  came  down  in  showers.  The  light  ones  wlrirled 
and  glimmered  in  the  sunlight,  and  shied  out  hither  and  thither 
all  over  the  yard.  Those  covered  with  moss  came  headlong  and 
thumped  the  ground  at  his  feet. 

"  Poor  thing,  do  you  know  me?"  raising  a  moss-loaded  shingle 
thoughtfully,  as  if  it  were  alive  ;  and  he  laughed  out  as  if  he  had 
been  answered  by  some  unexpected  cry. 

For  a  rakeful  of  shingles  had  sent  a  flock  of  hens  in  sudden 
scare  toward  the  barn-yard,  while  the  great  golden-speckled 
rooster  drew  up  with  magisterial  dignity  and  called  out,  "Cut- 
tark-cut,  cut,  cut?"  Receiving  no  answer,  with  a  low-crooning 
noise  in  his  throat,  he  cocked  his  eye,  first  at  the  doctor,  then  at 
the  house,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Do  you  know  what's  going  on 
here?"  And  then,  letting  down  his  right  foot  which  had  been 
drawn  up,  in  suspense,  he  pompously  moved  off  to  lecture  his  hens, 
that  were  already  picking  and  scratching  in  the  straw,  upon  the 
mystery  of  life. 

The  doctor  drew  near  the  now  cast-away  gutter,  and  stooping, 
plucked  two  or  three  of  the  weeds,  and  putting  them  under  his 
hat-band,  laid  down  his  hat  on  the  well-stone,  while  he  unrolled 
the  ricketty  old  windlass  and  sent  down  the  remnants  of  a  bucket 
for  water.     It  was  an  old-fashioned  well,  of  mysterious  depth.     If 


Yillage  Life  in  New  England.  17 

you  looked  down  its  narrow  and  dark  tliroat,  you  saw  notliing. 
If  jou  still  looked,  and  dropped  a  pebble  down,  a  faint  light  was 
reflected  from  the  crinkling  water  far  below.  For  four  or  five 
feet  at  the  top,  the  stones  were  lined  with  moss.  Up,  after  long 
winding,  came  the  bucket,  spurting  out  its  contents  on  every  side, 
and  filling  the  well  with  a  musical  splashing  sound,  reserving  hardly 
enough,  at  last,  to  serve  for  a  good  drink.  "Well,  'Biah,  I  under- 
stand the  old  proverb — truth  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  well.  If  I 
was  to  go  down  after  the  water,  very  likely  there  is  foul  air 
enough  down  there  to  put  me  out  like  a  candle ;  and  if  I  send  a 
bucket  down  the  greatest  part  leaks  out  before  I  can  reach  it. 
Much  work  and  little  truth  do  men  get  in  the  wells  they  dig  now- 
a-days." 

"  But  come  in  and  see  the  house." 

"  I  have  seen  it  too  often.  "Wait  till  you  have  lived  awhile 
here  and  changed  every  association.  I  shall  see  the  terrible  sight 
tliat  I  witnessed  when  old  Templeton  had  delirium  tremens.  He 
yelled  and  moaned  by  turns,  saw  men  and  devils  after  him,  and 
died  more  horribly  than  any  other  creature  that  I  ever  saw,  and 
I've  seen  many.     Scour  your  walls,  'Biah." 

Bad  as  the  house  was,  the  grounds  were  in  even  worse  condi- 
tion. The  barns  were  utterly  dilapidated ;  the  fences  were  poor; 
the  soil  had  been  fleeced,  and  scarcely  anything  that  was  bad  in 
husbandry  had  been  left  untried  upon  this  much-enduring  farm. 

But  this  universal  deterioration  had  so  depreciated  the  market 
value  of  the  place,  that  Cathcart  was  enabled  to  buy  it — making  a 
payment  of  a  thousand  dollars,  and  borrowing  the  rest,  with  his 
own  time  to  pay  it  off.  If  he  had  been  industrious  and  frugal  be- 
fore, he  was  far  more  so  now.  What  he  lacked  in  capital  he  must 
make  up  in  enterprise. 

For  a  year  or  two  the  struggle  was  close.  His  wife  was  hi8 
equal  in  industry  and  frugality.  Her  patience  was  never  even 
ruffled.  At  four  in  summer  and  at  five  in  winter,  the  light  blazed 
on  the  hearth,  and  there  were  sounds  in  the  barn.  After  the  cattle 
were  foddered,  and  until  daylight,  he  worked  at  "closing"  boots 
and  shoes,  earning  thus  a  small  addition  to  his  means.  At  dark 
the  same  labor  was  resumed.  This  rigid,  methodical  industry  was 
cheerfully  pursued  without  intermission  for  years,  and,  at  length, 
Degan  to  produce  its  results.     One  by  onfe  each  field  had  been 


18  Norwood. 

deepened ;  for  Catlicart  said :  *'  No  farmer  owns  any  deeper  thac 

he  can  plo^v•." 

Little  by  little  the  near  lots  were  cleared  of  stone,  which  re- 
appeared in  stone  walls,  built  with  a  breadth  and  accuracy  fit  for 
a  castle  wall,  and  which  at  length  were  carried  around  the  whole 
farm.  The  low-lying  lots,  filled  with  muck,  were  drained  and 
reduced  to  meadows ;  and  acres,  which  before  had  been  impassable 
to  cattle,  except  in  the  driest  summer  weather,  or,  when  frozen, 
became  solid,  and  the  most  productive  of  all  the  fiirm.  The  num- 
ber of  division  fences  was  greatly  reduced,  Cathcart  believing  that 
far  more  ground  was  wasted  by  fences  than  any  good  farmer  could 
afford.  The  land  actually  occupied  by  the  fence,  the  waste  each 
eide  of  it  by  brambles  or  weeds,  the  time  consumed  in  clearing 
these  useless  occupants  away,  if  the  farmer  was  neat,  Cathcart 
argued,  constituted,  in  ten  years,  a  heavy  tax  on  industry. 

In  such  a  climate,  in  such  a  soil,  and  in  such  a  community,  a 
farm  will  not  pay,  unless  it  be  made  to  move  with  the  accuracy  of 
a  machine,  and  with  an  economy  which  reaches  to  the  most 
minute  elements. 

Availing  himself  of  Dr.  Wentworth's  library,  he  had  read  the 
best  works  on  husbandry,  and  extracted  from  them  enough  to 
guide  his  practice  to  a  result  far  beyond  that  which  was  common 
in  the  neighborhood.  Whoever  had,  at  first,  criticized  the  new- 
fangled farming,  no  longer  doubted  its  success,  when,  at  length, 
the  farm  was  clear  of  debt,  and  returning  no  mean  revenue. 

Here  years  rolled  on,  and  Cathcart  grew  to  prosperity  and  into 
universal  respect.  Sons  and  daughters  were  born  to  him;  with 
only  two  of  whom,  however,  shall  we  have  to  do — the  youngest 
two — Barton  and  Alice,  who  will  in  due  time  take  their  places  in 
^ur  liistory. 


CIIAKTER  y. 

THE     WENTWORTHS. 

TuE  night  on  which  Rose  Wentworth  was  born  was  furnished 
out  with  all  suitable  auguries.  It  was  more  nearly  morning  than 
night.  That  was  well,  to  be  born  as  the  day  was  breaking  and 
morning  was  fi-esh  on  all  the  earth.  The  dew  lay  pure  on  all 
the  ground,  and  the  birds  were  singing. 

The  time  was  late  in  April,  and  the  resurrection  of  the  vege- 
table world  was  going  on.  If  one  feels  the  influence  of  the  seasons 
upon  his  natal  hour,  it  was  fit  that  Dr.  Went  worth's  first-born 
should  come,  not  with  the  wan  and  waning  mouths  of  autumn, 
but  in  the  months  of  newness,  when  all  things  feel  the  toutih  of 
recreative  power.  The  day  before  had  been  soft  and  showery. 
Southern  winds  filled  the  air  with  moisture  and  that  fragrant  smell 
of  soil  and  the  slight  balsamic  odor  of  opening  buds,  which  to 
some  sensitive  persons  is  strangely  exhilarating,  and  which  stirs 
the  mind  with  subtle  suggestion,  and,  after  the  long  imprisonment 
of  winter,  sets  the  tremulous  imagination  into  wild  delight. 

In  the  afternoon  there  had  been  several  peals  of  thunder,  which 
at  that  early  season  awakened  surprise  in  all,  but  which  the  Doctor 
accepted  as  a  part  of  a  happy  conjunction  of  natural  phenomena 
significant  of  his  child's  life  and  fate. 

Mother  Taft  had  been  waiting  at  the  house  for  several  days 
She  seemed  gently  stirred  at  the  sound  of  thunder.  But  even 
thunder  could  not  move  her  serene  nature  to  more  than  quiet 
wonder.  Half  the  children  in  the  village  called  her  Auntie,  and 
grew  up  with  the  impression  that  she  was  blood  kin  to  them.  Her 
face  was  young  for  one  of  fifty  years,  white  and  smooth.  Her  blue 
eye  never  flashed,  or  glowed,  or  burned,  or  pierced,  or  did  any  of 
those  violent  things  to  which  eyes  are  addicted.  Sad  eyes;  pity- 
ing eyes!  For  years  she  had  stood  a -door-keeper  for  this  sad 
world,  and  all  that  came  in  had  begun  their  life  wirh  cries  and 
wails,  as  if  to  prophesy  their  future.  Had  pity  for  those  born 
into  sorrow  and  crying  at  last  stamped  itself  in  her  very  features? 


20  Norwood;  ovy 

WheD  the  thunder  broke  forth  suddenly  and  rolled  away  in 
the  distance  with  softened  cadence,  Mother  Taft  moved  to  the 
front  door.  Her  walking  was  of  that  quiet  kind  that  seems  to 
have  no  more  footsteps  in  it  than  has  the  shadow  of  a  cloud  that 
is  gliding  along  the  ground.  Dr.  "Wentworth  was  coming  through 
the  door-yard,  noting  on  every  hand  the  condition  of  vegetation. 
The  willows  had  thrown  off  their  silky  catkins,  and  were  in  leaf; 
the  lilac  buds  were  swollen  large;  the  elm  was  covered  with 
chocolate-colored  blossoms ;  the  pyrus  japonica  was  reddening  its 
clusters  of  crimson  buds ;  the  green- wooded  forsythia  was  push- 
ing yellow  flowers ;  and  the  soft  maple  drew  bees  to  its  crimson 
tassels.  In  the  border,  peonies  were  breaking  ground ;  snow-drops 
and  crocuses  were  in  bloom,  as  also  hepaticas.  The  grass  was 
becoming  vividly  green,  and  honeysuckles — especially  over  the 
trellis  at  the  front  door — were  pushing  new  leaves.  Yes,  nature 
was  fairly  at  work !  The  sap  flowed  again.  Life  was  once  more 
organizing  myriads  of  curious  textures  and  forms  with  silent  forces 
infinite  and  almost  omnipotent. 

The  Doctor  searched  not  as  one  who  would  take,  but  only  find. 
When  the  thunder  sounded  he  bared  his  head  as  if  he  heard  some 
message.  His  eye  brightened  with  satisfaction,  and,  as  Mother 
Taft  opened  the  door,  he  said,  softly  but  solemnly : 

"She  will  hear  God's  voice.  Flowers  live.  All  things  are 
coming  forth.    Her  time  is  come.    But  she  must  have  her  crown." 

Calling  Pete,  a  great,  black,  clumsy-moving  fellow,  the  Doctor 
said: 

"  Pete,  I  want  some  trailing  arbutus ;  where  does  it  blossom 
earliest  ? " 

"What?"  said  Pete,  looking  perplexed. 

"Where  can  you  get  the  earliest  Mayflower?" 

"  May-flowers — why,  on  Howlet's  Hill,  of  course,"  said  Pete,  as 
if  surprised  that  the  Doctor  did  not  know  so  plain  a  fact  as  that. 

"Well,  Pete,  I  haven't  been  here  as  long  as  you  have,  and 
don't  know  the  ins  and  outs  of  the  fields  yet.  But  bring  up  the 
horses  and  drive  me  th^e.  Don't  let  grass  grow  under  your 
feet." 

Passing  through  a  pine  wood,  where  no  flowers  were  yet  grow- 
ing, and  ascending  the  hill,  through  an  open  wood  where  hemlock 
and  dociduous  trees  were  mixed,  they  came  near  the  top  to  a 


Village  Life  in  New  Enfjlaiid.  21 

half  cleared  space,  to  tlie  eje  brown  and  barren,  except  here 
and  there  clumps  of  evergreen  kalmias.  Pete's  eye  was  seldom  at 
fault. 

"  There's  some,  Doctor,  by  that  stump ;  and  there's  some  be- 
yond, ever  so  much."  Clearing  away  the  leaves  he  revealed  the 
sweetest  flower  that  opens  to  the  northern  sky.  It  is  content, 
though  lying  upon  the  very  ground.  It  braves  the  coldest  win- 
ters. All  the  summers  can  not  elaborate  a  perfume  so  sweet  as 
that  which  seems  to  have  been  born  of  the  very  winter.  It  is 
like  the  breath  of  love.  The  pure  white  and  pink  blossoms,  in 
sweet  clusters,  lie  hidden  under  leaves,  or  grass,  and  often  under 
untimely  snows.  Blessings  on  thee !  Thou  art  the  fairest,  most 
modest  and  sweetest-breathed  of  all  our  flowers! 

Enough  for  a  wreath  were  soon  gathered,  and  brought  home 
— the  fittest  emblem  wherewith  to  greet  the  little  damsel. 

I^ear  twilight  of  the  next  morning,  while  the  air  was  soft  and 
balmy,  and  roots  were  swelling,  and  buds  opening,  and  blossoms 
coming  forth,  and  birds  singing  love-songs  in  all  the  trees,  was  born 
Rose  "Wextwoeth. 

Dr.  Eeuben  Wentworth  was  born  in  the  old  town  of  Norwich, 
Connecticut,  in  one  of  the  old  pre-revolutionary  houses,  under  the 
shade  of  old  elms.  "What  with  the  early  colonial  history,  and  the 
always  romantic  legends  of  the  Indians,  he  found  the  whole  region 
about  his  birthplace  rich  in  historic  incident. 

His  family  originally  came  from  the  eastern  part  of  Massachu- 
setts, and  to  this  circumstance,  probably,  it  was  owing,  that  he 
studied  at  Harvard  University.  A  respectable  student  in  the  regu- 
lar course,  he  had  the  reputation  of  being  very  busy  with  studies 
outside  of  the  course.  He  early  manifested  a  strong  taste  for  Nat- 
ural Science,  but  was  never  satisfied  with  that  part  which  the  books 
contain,  but,  with  an  instinct  as  strong  as  that  which  leads  an 
infant  to  its  mother's  breast  for  food,  he  turned  from  the  dry  de- 
scriptions and  classifications  to  the  living  things  themselves.  At 
first,  it  was  almost  wholly  an  instinct,  the  sensibility  of  exquisite 
taste.  But  to  this  was  added,  by  grad^l  unfolding,  a  rational  ele- 
ment, and  then  a  moral  sympathy,  u^^^  found  himself  united 
to  the  organized  system  of  nature  with  e^ry  part  of  his  being. 

This  task  did  not  detach  him  from  the  love  of  books,  nor  of 
society,  nor   of  art  and  literature.     He  had  warm  sympathy  for 


22  Norwood ;  or, 

every  tiling  human,  and  for  all  the  proper  works  of  man — but  under 
and  behind  it,  was  a  strong  and  silent  sympathy  and  alliance  witli 
Nature  ;  silent : — for,  during  all  his  education,  Reuben  Wentworth 
had  a  vague  impression  that  his  tastes,  if  fully  disclosed,  would  ren- 
der him  liable  to  the  charge  of  being  a  dreamer,  and  a  poetical 
idealist. 

The  uncle,  whose  purse  had  carried  him  through  college,  was 
an  old  bachelor  of  fifty  years — spry,  lean,  and  chipper — Ebcnezer 
by  name.  But  people  are  usually  overclothed  with  names ;  and 
as  men  in  summer  or  at  work,  throw  off  their  superfluous  raiment 
till  their  arms  are  bare,  so  most  folks  dispense  with  a  portion  of 
their  names ;  and  Ebenezer  Wentworth  passed  everywhere  as 
Uncle  Eh.  He  wrote  his  nameEb.  Wentworth — tying  them  together 
with  a  long  flourish,  as  if  afraid  they  would  get  separated.  He 
used  to  laugh  at  people's  names. 

"  Folks  use  their  children  as  if  they  were  garret  pegs,  to  hang 
old  clothes  ort — ^first  a  jacket,  then  a  coat,  and  then  another  jacket. 
You  have  to  take  them  all  down  to  find  either  one.  Our  children 
go  trudging  all  their  lives  with  their  load  of  names,  as  if  tliey  were 
old  Jews  returning  with  an  assortment  of  clothes.  People  use  their 
children  as  registers  to  preserve  the  names  of  aunts  and  uncles, 
parents  and  grandparents,  and  so  inscribe  them  with  the  names  of 
the  dead,  as  if  tombstones  were  not  enough."  And  so  he  would 
run  on  for  an  hour,  if  any  one  would  listen,  and  even  if  they  did 
not ;  for  he  was  a  natural  talker — talked  nearly  all  the  time  when 
awake — no  more  if  men  listened  to  him,  no  less  if  they  did  not. 
Unlike  the  race  of  natural  talkers,  his  conversation  contained  a 
great  deal  of  good  sense,  and  of  shrewd  observation.  It  was  full 
of  whims,  too,  and  ludicrous  exaggerations,  particularly  when  any 
one  opposed  him.  There  was  no  excess  and  no  absurdity  which 
he  would  not  zealously  defend,  if  some  sober  and  literal  man  sought 
logically  to  corner  him.  He  disputed  axioms,  refused  to  admit  first 
principles,  laughed  at  premises,  and  ran  down  conclusions,  d©gma- 
rized  and  madly  asserted,  with  the  merriest  and  absurdest  indifter- 
ence  to  all  consistency;^^  which  there  is  no  parallel,  unless 
it  be  that  of  a  very  wJKLorse^  in  a  very  large  pasture,  with  a 
very  gouty  man  trying  to  catch  hira. 

But  this  was  superficial.  At  bottom  Uncle  Eb.  was  a  stern 
moralist  and  loyal  to  the  last  degree  in  hiS'feonduct  to  honor  and 
truth. 


Village  Life  in  New  Enfjland.  23 

If  you  had  a  pet  theory,  or  an  assumptious  argument,  or  a  log- 
ical brat  prigged  up  with  pretentious  authority,  Uncle  Eb.  was  the 
most  dangerous  of  men  to  entrust  it  with.  He  was  a  sore  trouble 
to  theologians  and  a  nuisance  to  theorists.  But  if  you  were  dying, 
he  was  just  the  man  to  entrust  your  estate  with.  Punctual,  exact, 
sharp,  disinterested,  but  pragmatical,  he  neither  would  cheat  nor 
allow  cheating.  There  was  no  more  vaporing,  no  more  wild  car- 
acoles of  the  horse  aforesaid,  in  open  fields,  but,  like  the  horse  in 
harness,  he  settled  down  to  his  work  with  edifying  sobriety  and 
regularity. 

"  Well,  Eeuben,  you  graduate  this  summer.  What  next  ?  What 
are  you  going  to  do  ?  You  are  pretty  well  stuffed  with  trash.  It 
wiU  take  several  years  to  forget  what  you  ought  not  to  have  learn- 
ed, and  to  get  rid  of  the  evil  effects  of  foolish  instruction.  But 
that  will  come  pretty  much  of  itself.  College  learning  is  very 
much  like  snow,  and  the  more  a  man  has  of  it  the  less  can  the 
soil  produce.  It's  not  till  practical  life  melts  it  that  the  ground 
yields  anything.  Men  get  over  it  quicker  in  some  kinds  of  busi- 
ness than  in  others.  The  college  sticks  longest  on  ministers  and 
schoolmasters :  next,  to  law^yers  ;  not  much  to  doctors  ;  and  none 
at  all  to  merchants  and  gentlemen.  You  can't  afford  to  be  a  gen- 
tleman, and  so  you  must  choose  among  other  callings." 

"Can't  a  man.  Uncle  Eb.,  be  a  gentleman  in  any  respectable 
calling  ? " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no.  My  gentleman  must  take  all  his  time  to  it, 
spend  his  life  at  it,  be  jealous  of  everything  else.  He  is  a  kind  of 
perfect  man,  a  sort  of  chronometer,  for  other  men  to  keep  time 
by.  One  is  enough  for  a  whole  town.  One  is  enough — two  would 
be  a  superfluity,  and  a  class  of  them  simply  a  nuisance.  A  gen- 
tleman should  have  feeling — bnt  should  hide  it.  People  of  much 
sentiment  are  like  fountains,  whose  overflow  keeps  a  disagreeable 
puddle  about  them.  He  should  have  knowledge,  but  not  like  your 
educated  men  of  our  day  whose  knowledge  sings  and  crows  and 
cackles  with  every  achievement.  His  knowledge  should  be  like 
apples  in  autumn  hanging  silently  on  ^he  bows-=— rich,  ripe  and 
still.  A  ggntleman  should  be  business-li^p  by  instinct.  Affairs  in 
his  handa»come  to  pass  silently^ and  without  ado,  as  Nature  com- 
passes her  results — the  vastest  range  and  round  of  spring  work 
making  less  noise  than  one  store  or  shop.     I  tell  you,  Reuben,  a 


24  Noncood ;  or, 

gentleman  is  a  rare  specimen.  He  requires  so  mucli  in  the  mak- 
ing that  few  are  made." 

'•  But  people  consider  you  a  gentleman,  Uncle  Eb." 

"Tut,  tut — no  ridicule,  young  man!  lam  gentlemanly.  That's 
another  thing.  I  have  worked  too  hard, — showing  that  I  had  not 
enough  power.  Power  works  easily.  I  have  fretted  too  much. 
Fretting  is  a  perpetual  confession  of  weakness.  It  says,  '  I  want 
to,  and  can't,'  Fretting  is  like  a  little  dog  pawing  and  whining  at 
a  door  because  he  can't  get  in.  IvTo,  no.  A  gentleman  is  like  a 
fine  piece  of  statuary,  and  must  not  be  used,  like  a  caryatide,  to 
hold  up  porticos  or  cornices.  He  must  be  so  fine  that  he  accom- 
plishes more  while  doing  nothing  than  others  do  with  all  their 
bustle.  He  must  be  better  than  other  men  at  the  start,  or  he  will 
grow  rough  in  trying  to  mend  matters,  and  so  be  like  the  best  of 
common  men,  who  only  succeed  in  getting  ready  to  live  when  it  is 
time  for  them  to  die." 

"Is  not  Squire  Perkins  a  gentleman?  " 

"  Good  and  polite !  But  not  wy  gentleman.  His  grain  is  not 
fine.  His  mother  was  a  sailor's  widow,  hearty  and  good- 
natured,  but  coarse  in  substance.  All  that  Judge  Perkins  can 
claim  is  good  nature,  which  is  a  mere  matter  of  health.  Good 
digestion — you  are  good-natured ;  bad  digestion — you  are  morose ! 
One  of  these  days  men  will  call  things  by  their  right  names-. 
Then  they  won't  say :  he's  of  a  good  disposition ;  but,  he  has  a 
good  stomach.  Half  the  grace  that's  going  is  nothing  but  food. 
Paul  said  the  kingdom  was  not  meat  and  drink.  Very  likely  not 
hereafter.  But  it  is  here.  Good  steak  and  light  bread  is  benevo- 
lence. Coffee  is  inspiration  and  humor.  Good  tea  is  tenderness 
and  sprightliness — facts  very  humbling  of  our  excellences.  But 
they're  facts.  Perkins  is  a  good  fellow.  But  if  he  was  old,  had 
the  rheumatism,  and  was  to  have  his  money  stolen,  he  would  be 
as  sour  as  a  crab-apple." 

Young  "Wentworth  was  amused  at  his  uncle's  crotchets,  and 
loved  to  oppose  him  just  enough  to  keep  the  old  gentlemen  on  the 
edge  of  extravagance,  without  being  fairly  driven  over  into  absurd- 
ity. # 

"No,  Reuben,  gentlemen  are  fore -ordained  from  all  eternity. 
They  can't  be  hurried  up  and  put  together  on  order,  like  a  box  of 
shoes  for  the  southern  market.     A  gentleman  nmst  see  everybody 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  25 

without  looking,  and  know  everybody  without  inquiry,  and  saj 
just  the  right  thing  to  everybody  without  trying  to  ;  and,  above 
all,  he  must  make  everybody  in  his  presence  do  the  best  things 
they  know  how  to  do.  That's  the  touchstone.  I've  seen  men 
come  almost  up  to  it.  But  then  they  would  let  people  get  angry ; 
they  would  suffer  them  to  say  and  do  disagreeable  things.  That 
^ill  never  do.  The  gentleman  is  a  natural  king.  Ee  has  the  in- 
tuition of  people's  nature,  and  can  touch  just  the  spot  in  them 
that  is  sweetest,  and  get  out  of  them  what  they  would  never  have 
wrought  out  of  themselves.  One  or  two  gentlemen  are  enough 
for  a  town.  They  are  steeples,  which  we  put  on  churches,  not  on 
dwelling-houses." 

"  Yery  well,  uncle,  I  will  give  up  being  a  gentleman.  Such  a 
brilliant  exception  to  good  and  well-bred  men  I  was  not  born  to 
be.     What  next?" 

"  You  should  never  make  a  clergyman  of  yourself.  You  are 
not  bad,  but  then  you're  not  good.  A  man  should  be  born  to  the 
pulpit.  A  musician  is  one  whose  brain  naturally  secretes  musical 
ideas;  a  poet  thinks  in  blossoms  just  as  naturally  as  honeysuckles 
do  ;  an  inventor's  head  is  made  to  work  out  mechanical  combina- 
tions. Men  are  like  trees,  each  one  must  put  forth  the  leaf  that  is 
created  in  him.  Education  is  only  like  good  culture — it  changes 
the  size  but  not  the  sort.  The  nien  that  ought  to  preach  should 
be  ordained  in  birth.  The  laying  on  of  hands  can't  make  an  empty 
head  full,  nor  a  cold  heart  warm,  nor  a  silent  nature  vocal.  A 
minister  is  a  genius  in  mpral  ideas,  as  a  poet  is  in  beautiful  ideas, 
and  an  inventor  in  physical  ideas." 

"  But  are  not  all  men  born  with  moral  natures,  and  may  not 
cultivation  develop  them  ?  " 

"  SOj  many  trees  have  sweet  sap  besides  the  maple,  but  the 
maple  only  is  so  sweet  as  to  be  profitable  for  sugar.  Corn- 
stalks have  saccharine  matter  as  well  as  sugar-cane.  But  we 
plant  one  for  grain  and  the  other  for  sugar,  just  because  it  is  so 
easy  for  one  to  bear  grain,  and  so  hard  for  it  to  make  sugar ;  and 
80  easy  for  the  other  to  yield  sugar,  and  so  impossible  to  give 
grain.  Find  out  whether  a  man's  head  is  fertile  in  moral  ideas. 
It  is  not  enough  that  he  should  know  what  is  right  when  he  sees 
it.  He  should  see  it  before  it  exists.  New  good,  new  truth, 
better  justice  should  suggest  itself  to  him  on  every  side.     He  is  an 


26  Norwood;  or 

inventor  of  better  good  than  men  now  possess.  Your  head,  Reu- 
ben, does  not  run  clear;  you  think  a  matter  is  right  if  only  it  is 
beautiful,  with  a  little  touch  of  wildness  in  it.  Besides,  the  office 
of  a  minister  won't  agree  with  your  natural  carriage.  You  would 
run  when  you  were  expected  to  walk.  You  have  no  respect  for 
rules.  You  would  scare  every  body  once  a  month  with  some  nat- 
uralistic notions  gathered  in  your  rambling  in  the  fields.  Theology, 
like  old  Isaac,  always  puts  its  nose  on  its  •children  to  see  if  the 
smell  of  the  fields  is  upon  them.  Isaac  blessed  Jacob  because  it 
was ;  theology  blesses  Jacob  only  when  it  is  not !  Natural  re- 
ligion is  generally  considered  as  poor  stufi;  Imported  is  thought 
more  of  than  home-made — broadcloth  proves  better  than  linsey- 
woolsey.  The  church  thinks  that  it  will  not  do  to  make  religion 
too  easy ;  folks  might  take  it  np  of  themselves.  You  were  not 
born  for  a  pulpit.  Few  men  are.  Pulpits  are  queer  places — can- 
dlesticks whose  candles  won't  burn — learned  men,  but  can't  speak, 
like  deep  wells  and  a  pump  that  won't  fetch  water." 

"  Ah,  uncle,  you  don't  like  ministers,  I  am  afraid.  All  that  I 
have  ever  known  were  capital  fellows — manly  and  sincere.  But, 
as  you  say,  I  don't  think  I  am  good  enough,  and  so  I  promise  you 
upon  my  honor,  that  I  won't  be  a  clergyman." 

In  early  life  Uncle  Eb.  had  been  deeply  wounded  in  a  love 
affair,  and  saw  his  treasure  borne  off  by  a  young  minister.  He  had 
never  married,  and  he  never  quite  forgave  the  profession.  But  it 
is  only  just  to  say,  that  while  he  made  cynical  speeches  about  min- 
isters in  general,  he  had  conceived  the  warmest  attachment  to 
many  clergymen  in  particular. 

"  Perhaps  you  think  I'd  better  be  a  lawyer  ?  " 

"  There's  worse  things  than  that.  But  you  would  never  make 
your  bread  at  that  business.  It's  a  hot  and  drastic  profession. 
You  will  see  men  chiefly  on  the  selfish  side.  You  will  be  always 
making  a  porridge  of  somebody's  dirt.  Pretty  good  fellows,  lawyers 
are  ;  but  I  wonder  at  it." 

-  "  I  declare,  uncle,  I  believe  you  mean  to  make  a  schoolmaster 
of  me." 

"Js"o,  sir;  a  man  should  never  be  a  schoolmaster.  That's  a 
woman's  business.  Be  a  professor  or  nothing !  Even  then  it's  a 
poor  business.  Who  ever  heard  of  a  college  professor  that  was  not 
poor?     They  dry  up  in  pocket  like  springs  after  the  wood  is  cut 


Villac/e  Life  in  New  England.  2'' 

off"  from  tho  hills.  They  are  apt  to  get  very  dry  in  other  ways, 
too.  A  man  that  teaches  cannot  afford  to  know  too  much.  A 
teaclicr  is  like  a  needle.  He  should  be  small  and  sharp.  If  large, 
he  cannot  run  easily  through  the  garments  to  be  made.  Tho 
College  President  ought  to  be  a  great  man — a  sort  of  specimen, — 
something  for  the  boys  to  remember  as  a  pattern  of  a  man." 

"  WeU,  uncle,  as  I  am  not  a  born  gentleman,  and  can't  make  a 
good  minister,  am  too  good  to  be  a  lawyer,  and  must  not  be  a 
schoolmaster ;  as  I  am  too  fat  to  be  a  professor,  and  not  grand 
enough  for  a  president, — I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  to  go  to  sea  for  a 
living ;  for  I  am  not  fit  to  work,  and  should  sell  myself  out  of 
house  and  home,  if  I  was  a  merchant." 

"  There  is  just  one  thing  left,  and  a  business  proper  fur  you  ; 
you  should  be  a  doctor !  You  love  nature.  You  love  chemistry 
and  botany.  You  are  fond  of  all  curious  insearch  and  occult 
functions.  A  doctor,  it  is  true,  is  everybody's  servant.  But  you 
will  be  left  to  think  and  reason,  without  any  master.  And  the 
riding,  especially  in  the  country,  wiU  suit  your  desultory  nature." 

"And,  to  sum  it  all  up,  uncle,  you  want  me  to  be  a  doctor, 
because  your  father  was  one,  and  his  father,  and  your  brother,  and 
for  fear  a  link  should  be  missing,  you  want  me  to  study  medicine. 
That  you  want  it,  is  enough." 


CHAPTER  YI. 

WANDERING   THOUGHTS. 

Young  Wentworth,  after  graduating,  took  a  regular  course  of 
medicine  in  Boston,  with  an  average  standing.  By  his  uncle's  lib- 
erality he  spent  a  year  in  Vienna,  and  one  in  Paris.  Longer  he 
was  to  have  remained.  But  his  uncle's  sickness  brought  him 
home,  only  in  time  to  spend  a  few  days  with  him  before  the  ec- 
centric but  kind  man  died.  His  property  was  left  to  young  Went- 
worth,  and  it  proved  greater  than  men  had  suspected.  Some  for- 
tunate adventures,  and  sagacious  investments,  had  put  his  affairs 
in  such  condition  that  his  nephew  found  himself  possessed  of  an 
income  that  removed  one  motive  for  exertion,  and  left  him  to  pur- 
sue his  profession  from  taste  and  kindness  rather  than  from  urgent 
necessity. 

Kefusing  most  flattering  overtures  for  a  city  practice.  Dr.  TVent- 
worth  sought  a  sphere  in  Norwood^  where  he  could  be  in  daily 
and  intimate  converse  with  nature. 

"  She  is  my  mother,"  he  used  to  say,  "and  all  her  brood  are 
my  kin." 

Dr.  "Wentworth  would  have  succeeded  in  any  liberal  profession. 
But  his  nature  was  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  profession  which  he 
had  chosen.  Some  men  chill  you  ;  some  cheer  and  inspire  with 
mirth  or  humor;  some  stir  in  you  vague  suspicion,  doubts,  and 
distrust  of  men  and  life.  But  Dr.  Wentworth's  presence  brought 
peace  and  trust.  He  radiated  from  his  nature  a  perpetual  June. 
Singularly  fortunate  in  temper  and  disposition,  as  well  as  in  judg- 
ment and  philosophic  sense,  he  was  still  more  fortunate  in  the 
rare  gift  of  bearing  unconsciously  about  with  him  an  atmosphere 
which  inspired  health  in  body  and  soul  upon  those  susceptible  to 
subtle  influences. 

This  was  a  notable  element  in  his  medical  practice.  His  skill 
consisted  in  persuading  men  to  get  well.  Sickness  is  very  largely 
the  want  of  will.  Everything  is  brain.  There  is  thought  and  feel- 
ing not  only,  but  will :  and  will  includes  in  it  far  more  than  mental 
philosophers  think.     It  acts  universally,  now  as  upon  mind,  and 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  29 

then  just  as  much  upon  the  body.  It  is  another  name  for  life- force. 
Men  in  whom  this  life  or  will-power  is  great,  resist  disease,  and 
combat  it  when  attacked.  To  array  a  man's  mind  and  will  against 
his  sickness  is  the  supreme  art  of  medicine.  Inspire  in  men  courage 
and  purpose,  and  the  mind-power  will  cast  out  disease.  He  was 
himself  the  best  medicine,  and  often  cured  by  his  presence  those 
whom  drugs  would  have  scarcely  helped.  These  cures  through 
the  spirit  of  the  patient  he  regarded  as  far  the  most  skilful  and 
philosophical. 

"Nothing  ails  her.  It  is  only  her  imagination,"  baid  the  nurse 
to  him  one  day. 

"  Only  the  imagination  ?  That  is  enough.  Better  suffer  in 
bone  and  muscle  than  in  the  imagination.  If  the  body  is  sick,  the 
mind  can  cure  it ;  but  if  the  mind  itself  is  sick,  what  shall  cure 
that  ? » 

These  elements  of  character,  in  time,  would  have  procured  for 
him  constant  employment,  even  had  he  been  poor,  and  in  need  of 
immediate  occupation.  But  as  he  had  a  competence,  and  abundant 
occupation  in  his  grounds  and  books,  and  in  pleasant  society,  to 
which  his  tastes  strongly  inclined  him,  he  fomid  his  professional 
services  from  the  first  in  great  demand ;  and  furnished  another  in- 
stance of  the  willingness  of  men  to  aid  those  not  in  need,  while 
those  who  are  likely  to  starve  if  not  at  once  befriended  are  put  on 
a  long  probation. 

For  several  years  there  was  much  pleasing  and  amiable  specu- 
lation upon  the  social  prospects  of  this  promising  physician — and 
surely  the  benevolence  of  his  fellow-men  is  to  be  commended. 
Well  married,  a  man  is  winged— ill-matched,  he  is  shackled. 

The  good  people  of  Norwood  were  enterprising,  and  very  busy. 
They  had  little  time,  aside  from  their  own  affairs ;  and  yet  so  kind 
were  they,  that  scores  of  them  spent  much  time  in  thinking  for 
Dr.  Wentworth,  and  in  cheerfully  devising  for  him  an  eligible  con- 
nection. It  is  to  be  hoped  that  they  were  abundantly  gratified, 
when  he  found  a  wife,  without  their  help.  Certainly  there  was  no 
offence  which  alienated  their  sympathy ;  for,  when  Dr.  Weutworth, 
returning  from  a  fortnight's  absence,  appeared,  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing, in  his  pew  at  church,  that  pew  became  tlie  centre  of  the 
church,  and  outmastered  the  choir  and  the  pulpit! 

"  Who  is  this  woman  that  is  better  than  all  of  us  ? "  loolced  at 


30  Norwood;   or, 

least  a  score  of  girlish  faces — and  another  score  of  graver  motliei 
faces.  Five  or  six  in  different  parts  of  the  house,  in  the  most  grave 
and  decorous  manner,  spoke  or  whispered,  each  to  some  neighbor, 
an  edifying  comment,  as  follows : 

"  How  old  should  you  take  her  to  be  ?  " 

"At  least  twenty-five." 

"  Thirty  !  not  a  year  less." 

"I  don't  think  she  cares  much  about  dress;  do  you?  She's 
rather  too  plain,  if  anything." 

"  Perhaps  she  depends  on  her  manner.  Do  you  notice  how  she 
rises,  and  sits  down  ?  " 

"  She  comes  up  about  to  the  doctor's  shoulders,  don't  she  ? 
That's  so  sweet,  always.  If  ever  I  marry,  I  should  want  his 
name  to  be  Augustus,  an4  he  should  have  blue  eyes,  and  my  head 
should  come  just  up  to  his  shoulders.  I  think  that  would  be  so 
dear." 

"  Can  you  see  her  hands  ?     Has  she  many  rings  ? " 

"  Do  you  know  if  the  doctor  got  anything  by  her  ?  Of  course 
he  don't  need  it.  He's  got  property  enough  of  his  own.  But 
then,  I  think  it  tends  to  peace  in  the  family,  if  both  bring  a  little 
property.  Money  is  of  no  use  without  piety.  But,  when  a  man 
has  grace  in  his  heart  and  money  in  his  pocket,  then  he  can  have 
peace  both  with  God  and  man." 

"  I  believe  she's  proud.  I've  watched  her  ever  since  she's  come 
in.  And  she  hasn't  looked  around  once.  May  be  she  thinks  we 
aint  worth  looking  at." 

"  Well,  for  my  part,  I  don't  think  so.  People  don't  come  here 
to  gape  and  stare,  not  if  they're  Christians.  I  blieve  she's  pious. 
"We  shall  know  next  sacrament-time.  If  she  comes  to  prepara- 
tory lecture  and  to  sacrament,  then  you  may  know  she's  pious." 

The  sermon  over,  and  the  services  ended,  the  minister,  the 
deacons,  and  a  few  of  the  leading  members,  were  introduced  to 
the  new  comer.  They  hoped  for  a  better  acquaintance.  They 
should  be  happy  to  call.  They  hoped  she  was  pleased  with  Nor- 
wood. How  did  she  like  the  church  ?  Had  she  recovered  from 
the  fatigue  of  her  journey  ?  Had  she  ever  been  in  Norwood  be- 
fore? Deacon  Trowbridge  solemnly  hoped  she  would  be  strength- 
ened to  meet  her  responsibilities.  And  only  spry  and  dry  Deacon 
Marble  ventured  on  a  compliment. 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  31 

"Well,  ma'am,  Dr.  "Wentworth  allers  was  fond  of  flowers,  and 
I  knew  he'd  pick  a  good  one  when  he  came  to  choose." 

If  the  people  whispered  a  few  covert  opinions  in  church,  it  was 
a  mere  first-fruits  of  that  harvest  which  waved  during  the  inter- 
mission. Except  the  minister,  the  doctor  was,  undoubtedly,  the 
most  important  man  in  IsTorwood. 

"  Took  us  rather  by  surprise,  Judge !  Some  folks  thought  the 
doctor  needn't  gone  out  of  town  for  a  wife." 

"  Perhaps  it's  of  long  standing.  The  doctor  hp,s  a  good  deal  of 
romance.  But  she  is  of  excellent  family.  I  know  them  very  well. 
Came  over  in  the  Mayflower." 

"  Did  she  ?    Why,  she  don't  look  so  old  ?  " 

"  Bless  you,  looks  are  deceiving,"  said  Judge  Bacon,  his  whole 
face  looking  amused  at  Mr.  Truman's  misconception. 

Many  there  were  that  had  a  conscience  about  conversing  on 
such  themes  upon  Sunday.  Mr.  Edwards  and  his  sister  walked  in 
a  stately  and  quiet  manner,  without  a  word  ;  and,  as  he  carefully 
latched  the  gate,  Dr.  Wentworth  and  his  wife  were  passing.  Of 
course,  he  heartily  shook  hands,  but  not  a  word  did  he  speak,  nor 
his  sister,  after  entering  their  tree-embosomed  house.  Sabbath 
reigned  in  their  house  and  in  their  hearts. 

The  Miss  Marshes,  two  sensible  spinsters,  found  themselves 
among  several  neighbors,  all  in  full  criticism.  Various  were  the 
reports  and  the  hungry  questions ;  but  not  a  word  could  the  plain 
old  maids  be  got  to  say,  good  or  ill. 

"  What  do  you  think,  Miss  Anna  ?  "  said  a  neighbor  to  the  eldest 
sister. 

"  I  don't  think  anything  about  it." 

"  But  you  noticed  her,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  IsTo  more  than  I  did  others.  I  hope  to  find  her  a  pleasing  per- 
son, when  I  shall  know  her.  Did  you  not  think  the  sermon  un- 
usually instructive  to-day  ? " 

"  The  sermon  ?  Oh,  yes ;  I'd  most  forgot  about  that.  What 
was  the  text  ?  La,  me — I've  forgot  the  text.  My  husband  is  sick, 
and  I  shall  have  to  teU  him  about  the  sermon.  What  was  it, — • 
something  about — minding  our  own  business,  or  something— no 
doctrine — nothing  but  morality.    Do  tell  me  where  the  text  was." 

Hiram  Beers,  as  usual,  liad  gathered  about  him  a  knot  of  young 
men  around  the  church  door,  and  of  those  staying  during  the  in- 


32  Norwood;  oTy 

termission,  and  quite  a  number  of  girls  had  been  drawn  to  heal 
what  Hiram  vrould  say — for  Hiram's  speeches  belonged  to  the 
whole  town. 

"  I  think  the  doctor  is  a  love  of  a  man ;  and  oh,  I  should  Uke  to 
know  about  his  courtship." 

Hiram  overheard  the  whisper  in  which  a  Miss  of  fifteen  had  said 
this  to  her  companion,  and,  assuming  a  confident  air,  he  says : 

"  Why,  Matilda,  I  know  all  about  it.  I  drove  the  doctor  over 
you  know,  and  he  told  me  all  about  it !  " 

"He  did?     Oh,  do  tell  us !  " 

"  That  I  will — every  word.  You  see  the  doctor  meant  to  marry 
Miss  Xaxon,  till  he  saw  Miss  Ferris  ;  and  he  might  have  decided 
between  tJiem^  but  then  Miss  Greanleaf  came  to  town,  and  then 
there  was  three  of  'em !  On  lookin'  into  the  matter  the  doctor 
found  that  he  liked  them  just  alike,  to  a  grain,  and  as  the  law 
wouldn't  let  him  marry  all  of  'em  he  couldn't  take  one  without 
leaving  two ;  and  that,  you  see,  would  have  been  two  griefs  to  one 
joy — not  a  fair  bargain.     So  he  was  forced  to  go  to  Boston." 

"  TrTiy,  what  did  he  go  to  Boston  for  ? " 

"  "Well,  that's  a  pretty  question  !  That's  the  only  place  to  go 
to !  Why,  if  a  man  wants  anything  he  alius  goes  to  Boston. 
Everything  goes  there,  just  as  natural  as  if  that  city  was  the 
moon,  aud  everything  else  was  water,  and  had  to  go,  like  the  tides. 
Don't  you  know  all  the  railroads  go  to  Boston?  and  sailors  say — 
you  ask  Tommy  Tafts — if  you  start  anywhere  clear  down  in  Flori- 
dy  and  keep  up  along  the  coast,  you  will  fetch  up  in  Boston. 
They  have  to  keep  things  tied  up  around  there.  They  fasten  their 
trees  down,  and  have  their  fences  hitched,  or  they  would  all  of 
'em  whirl  into  Boston.  They  have  watchers  set  every  night,  or 
so  many  things  would  come  to  admire  Boston  that  the  city  would 
be  covered  down  like  Herculaneum.  Of  course  the  doctor  went 
to  Boston.  Every  single  one  of  the  first  chop  folks  was  married 
off  the  week  afore  he  got  there,  but  one ;  there  was  just  one  left. 
But  she  was  the  very  best  of  the  lot.  The  doctor  saw  her  in  Old 
South  church.  She  was  a  singin',  '  Come  ye  disconsolate.'  The 
minute  she  set  her  ej^es  on  the  doctor " 

By  this  time  the  boys  were  snickering,  and  the  girls  giggling, 
and  our  honest-faced  little  questioner  began  to  doubt  Hiram's  au- 
thenticity.    "  Now,  Hiram,  I  don't  believe  a  word  you  say." 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  33 

"  TTell,  if  you  don't  believe  me,  you  just  ask  the  doctor  him- 
Eelf." 

Not  a  smile  was  on  his  face.  He  looked  at  his  listeners  one  bj 
one  with  a  quizzical  solemnity,  for  a  second,  and  thea,  as  one  whc 
remembered  pressing  duties  elsewhere,  he  walked  away  in  exact 
imitation  of  the  minister's  gait. 

Deacon  Marble  expressed  to  his  wife  Polly  his  good  impressions 
of  the  doctor's  wife,  as  they  rode  home  in  their  rattling  one-horse 
wagon. 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  see  the  old  mansion  looking  life-like  again, 
as  it  did  when  Saltonstall  was  alive— fine  old  house.  Mebbe  too 
many  trees  round.  The  doctor  sets  a  store  on  the  trees,  though. 
But  the  old  place  will  spruce  up,  I  guess,  with  a  new  wife." 

"  That's  a  pretty  speech,  Deacon  Marble,  as  if  the  doctor  hadn't 
lived  three  years,  and  had  Agate  Bissell  for  housekeeper,  and  a 
smarter  and  better  you  won't  find  if  you  sarch  the  whole  State. 
Anybody  that  takes  her  place  has  got  to  stir  round.  I'm  one  that 
don't  b'lieve  there'll  ever  be  any  better  housekeeper  in  that  old 
mansion  than  Agate  Bissell.  There  wasn't  a  chimney  in  town 
that  smoked  afore  hers  did  in  the  morning,  and  there  wasn't  ono 
house  kept  cleaner.  After  she'd  scrubbed  a  floor  you  might  eat 
your  vittals  off  it,  if  it  was'nt  for  the  name  oft.  I  don't  b'lieve 
my  pans  are  any  cleaner,  nor  the  milk  any  whiter  than  her  rooms. 
And  then  it  wasn't  any  Pharisee-work.  She  ain't  one  of  those 
folks  that  makes  the  outside  clean,  and  leaves  the  inside.  It  would 
do  you  good  to  look  in  her  closets  and  cupboards,  and  drawers  and 
boxes.  It  was  as  good  as  a  picture.  I  don't  b'lieve  there  was  a 
spider  in  the  house,  from  cellar  to  garret.  She  was  allers  cleanin' 
and  lookin',  and  huntin'  and  riibbin'." 

"  Yes,  Polly,  I  guess  you're  right.  I've  got  a  woman  down  to 
my  house  purtey  much  the  same  sort.  I  kinder  pity  the  dirt — it 
has  a  hard  time  in  our  house!" 

Even  Polly  was  liable  to  temptation,  and  her  face  looked  as  it 
had  forty  years  ago,  when  compliments  had  brought  a  smile  to  it. 
But  she  was  so  thin— all  nerve,  bone  and  skin— that  smiles  slipped 
off  easily,  and  left  the  same  anxious  and  earnest  face. 

"  There's  no  wastin'  where  Agate  Bissell  is.  She  can  make  a 
cent  go  as  far  as  most  folks'  shillin.'  She's  had  a  hard  time  of  it, 
too.     The  doctor's  not  particular,  and  lie  wouldn't  let  her  put  his 


34  Norwood ;  or, 

study  to-riglits.  You  know  it's  a  great  room,  running  tlie  whole 
depth  of  the  house,  and  full  of  books  and  stuff,  and  pictures,  and 
engravin's,  and  stacks  of  all  sorts  of  things,  and  the  table  full  of 
rubbish,  and  chairs  full  of  portfolios,  and  he'd  never  let  Agate  Bis- 
sell  touch  'em.     It  was  awful. 

"  '  i^obodj  can  tell,'  she  says  to  me,  '  how  I  long  to  get  in  there.' 
The  doctor  '11  have  much  to  answer  for !  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  Agate  Bissell  is  distressin'  neat.  The  mice  have  a 
hard  time  in  her  house — starved  'em  out,  I'm  told — saved  the  cat's 
board  by  it.     She  is  dreadful  particular!  " 

There  was  something  in  the  deacon's  tone  which  did  not  suit 
his  wife,  and  she  sharply  edified  him : 

"  I  wish  you  was  half  as  particular,  Deacon  Marble,  with  your 
tongue  as  Agate  Bissell  is  with  her  hands.  Then  yon  wouldn't 
make  such  foolish  speeches  as  you  do.  You  must  needs  compli- 
ment her,  right  in  church,  and  afore  the  minister  I  " 

"  I  compliment  her?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  make  strange  of  it.  I  heerd  what  you  said  about 
flowers.  So  did  she.  Such  kind  of  talk  ain't  thrown  away.  It 
sticks  like  burs,  and  makes  folks  think  you  like 'em  more'n  you 
do.  Talking  roses  and  poses  to  the  girls  is  not  beci»min'  in  a 
deacon." 

The  deacon  gave  his  horse  a  cut  with  his  whip,  and,  being 
spirited,  the  animal  suddenly  sprang  with  a  jerk  that  seemed  likely 
to  snap  his  wife's  head  off.  If  the  mischievous  man  meant  to  put 
an  end  to  the  discourse,  which  was  likely  from  this  point  to  be- 
come personal,  he  succeeded. 

How  they  ever  made  a  deacon  out  of  Jerry  Marble  I  never 
could  imagine  !  His  was  the  kindest  heart  that  ever  bubbled  and 
ran  over.  He  was  elastic,  tough,  incessantly  active  and  a  pro- 
digious worker.  He  seemed  never  to  tire,  but  after  the  longest 
day's  toil,  he  sprang  up  the  moment  he  had  done  with  work,  as  ii 
he  were  a  fine  steel  spring.  A  few  hours'  sleep  sufficed  him,  and 
he  saw  the  morning  stars  the  year  round.  His  weazened  face  wa« 
leather  color,  but  forever  dimpling  and  changing  to  keep  some  sort 
of  congruity  between  itself  and  his  eyes,  that  winked  and  blinked, 
and  spilt  ovsr  with  merry  good  nature.  He  always  seemed  nfilicted 
when  obliged  to  be  sober.  He  had  been  known  to  laugh  in  meet- 
ing on  several  occasions,  although  he  ran  his  face  behind  his  hand- 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  33 

kerchief  and  coughed,  as  if  that  was  the  matter,  yet  nobody  be- 
lieved it.  Once,  in  a  hot  summer  day,  lie  saw  Deacon  Trowbridge, 
a  sober  and  fat  man,  of  great  sobriety,  gradually  ascending  from 
the  bodily  state  into  that  spiritual  condition  called  sleep.  He  was 
blameless  of  the  act.  He  had  struggled  against  the  temptation 
with  the  whole  virtue  of  a  deacon.  He  had  eaten  two  or  three 
heads  of  fennel  in  vain,  and  a  piece  of  orange  peel.  He  had  stir- 
red himself  up,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  minister  with  intense 
firmness,  only  to  have  them  grow  gradually  narrower  and  milder. 
If  he  held  his  head  up  firmly,  it  would  with  a  sudden  lapse  fall 
away  over  backward.  If  he  leaned  it  a  little  forward,  it  would 
drop  suddenly  into  his  bosom.  At  each  nod,  recovering  himself, 
he  would  nod  again,  with  his  eyes  wide  open,  to  impress  upon  the 
boys  that  he  did  it  on  purpose  both  times. 

In  what  other  painful  event  of  life  has  a  good  man  so  little 
sympathy  as  when  overcome  with  sleep  in  meeting  time?  Against 
the  insidious  seduction  he  arrays  every  conceivable  resistance.  He 
stands  up  awhile ;  he  pinches  himself,  or  pricks  himself  with  pins. 
He  looks  up  helplessly  to  the  pulpit  as  if  some  succor  might  pos- 
sibly come  thence.  He  crosses  his  legs  uncomfortably,  and  at- 
tempts to  recite  catechism,  or  the  multiplication  table.  He  seizes 
a  languid  fan,  which  treacherously  leaves  him  in  a  calm.  He  tries 
to  reason,  to  notice  the  phenomena.  Oh,  that  one  could  carry  his 
pew  to  bed  with  him  I  TVTiat  tossing  wakefulness  there!  what 
fiery  chase  after  somnolency  I  In  his  lawful  bed  a  man  cannot 
sleep,  and  in  his  pew  he  cannot  keep  awake !  Happy  man  who 
does  not  sleep  in  church !  Deacon  Trowbridge  was  not  that  man. 
Deacon  Marble  was ! 

Deacon  Marble  witnessed  the  conflict  we  have  sketched  above, 
and  when  good  Mr.  Trowbridge  gave  his  next  lurch,  recovered 
himself  with  a  snort,  and  then  drew  out  a  red  handkerchief  and 
blew  his  nose  with  a  loud  imitation,  as  if  to  let  the  boys  know  that 
he  had  not  been  asleep,  poor  Deacon  Marble  was  brought  to  a 
sore  strait.  But,  I  have  reason  to  think  that  he  would  have 
weathered  the  stress  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  sweet-faced  little  boy 
in  the  front  of  the  gallery.  The  lad  had  been  innocently  watching 
the  some  scene,  and  at  its  climax  laughed  out  loud,  with  a  frank 
and  musical  explosion,  and  then  suddenly  disappeared  backward 
into  his  mother's  lap.     That  Inugh  was  just  too  mucli,  and  Deacon 


36  Norwood;  or, 

Marble  could  no  more  help  laughing  than  could  Deacon  Trow- 
bridge help  sleeping.  l!Tor  could  he  conceal  it.  Though  he 
coughed,  and  put  up  his  handkerchief  and  hemmed — it  izas  a  laugh 
— deacon ! — and  every  boy  in  the  house  knew  it,  and  liked  you 
better  for  it — so  inexperienced  were  they ! 

Polly,  his  wife,  was  all  that  the  deacon  was  not.  IRo  one  had 
ever  known  her  to  laugh.  Her  utmost  indulgence  amounted  only 
to  a  pale  and  vanishing  smile,  which  looked  more  like  a  shadow 
crossing  the  face  than  sunlight  upon  it.  Of  a  nervous,  bilious 
temperament,  she  was  thin,  acute,  intense  and  earnest  to  the  last 
atom  of  her  existence.  There  was  no  gradation  or  perspective  in 
her  conscience.  The  least  wrong  was  a  full-sized  sin ;  and  the 
smallest  sin  was  worse  than  we  can  measure.  Great  sins  were  a 
terror  for  the  future  life,  not  for  this.  Of  many  edifying  instruc- 
tions which  at  different  times  he  received,  we  will  select  but  one, 
which  occurred  some  years  before  Wentworth's  marriage,  but 
might,  from  its  tenor,  just  as  well  be  inserted  in  connection  with 
that  event,  or  at  any  other  period  during  a  score  of  years,  for  that 
matter. 

"Deacon  Marble,  I  wonder  what  you  think  will  become  of 
you!  Such  levity  in  the  house  of  God  is  awful.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  a  minute  if  you  was  to  be  struck  dead.  You  know  that 
the  man  was  destroyed  for  pickin'  up  chips  and  sticks  on  Sunday, 
and  laughing  is  a  good  deal  worse,  especially  in  the  house  of  God. 
I  always  said  that  I  couldn't  imagine  why  they  ever  made  you 
deacon — a  man  whose  eyes  and  face  are  always  agoin'  as  if  they 
were  makin'  fun  of  the  sacred  office." 

The  image  raised  by  these  last  words  seemed  to  touch  the 
deacon's  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  and  he  fell  under  the  temptation 
again — though  riding  home,  on  Sunday,  in  full  sight  of  his  neigh- 
bors. 

"I  declare.  Deacon  Marble,  you  will  bring  reproach  on  reli- 
gion." And  looking  at  him  through  her  spectacles,  whose  glasses 
were  about  four  times  the  size  of  the  eyes  that  snapped  behind 
them,  she  continued — "I  think  deacon-timber  was  scarce  when 
they  picked  you  out." 

"Mercy  on  us,  Polly,  I  didn't  make  myself  a  deacon,  and  I 
didn't  make  myself,  anyhow.  I  'spose  I  perfoi-m  pretty  much  as  I 
was  built.     But,  I  never  saw  any  harm  in  laughing.     If  it's  a  sin, 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  z*\ 

I  cau't  see  wliat  the  Lord  lets  so  many  funny  things  happen  for. 
I  don't  go  and  make  things  funny !  Tliey  come  to  me.  The 
whole  world  is  full  of  queer  things,  and  it  aint  my  fault  if  I  see 
them." 

"That's  your  vain  way.  It  don't  seem  to  me  that  you  can 
have  any  conscience  about  laughing  at  improper  times  and  things. 
I  once  heard  you  snicker  at  a  funeral.  Besides,  it  leads  to  deceit. 
You  know  you  hadn't  any  nose-bleed  when  you  went  out  of  church 
last  summer,  holding  your  handkerchief  all  over  your  face.  I  saw 
what  'twas.  You  was  looking  at  that  naughty,  wicked  boy  puttin' 
a  piece  of  grass  in  that  man's  ear,  and  he  givin'  himself  a  box  on 
the  car — which  he  ought  to  have  laid  ou  the  boy's  ear." 

Poor  Marble  went  off  into  another  burst,  at  the  remembrance. 
'*  Why,  Polly,  he  thought  it  was  a  fly,  and  he  raised  his  big  hand, 
so  sly  and  cunning,  to  give  the  fly  a  wipe,  and  hit  his  own  ear," 
— at  which  point  he  went  off  again  into  a  chuckle,  producing  a 
churning  motion  all  over  his  body. 

Now,  there  was  not  another  deacon  in  town  that  did  so  many 
good  turns  to  those  in  trouble ;  and  though  his  infirmity  was  known, 
sick  people  liked  to  have  the  little,  spry  old  deacon  Marble  come 
to  pray  at  their  bedsides.  And  when  Widow  Nance's  cow  died  in 
calf,  it  was  from  Marble's  yard,  the  very  next  night,  that  a  cow 
was  driven,  and  put  in  her  yard.  All  the  poor  old  shacks  about 
town  found  a  friend  in  Deacon  Marble.  This,  too,  was  a  source 
of  much  trouble  to  his  guardian  angel  at  home. 

"  I  do  believe  you  would  rather  spend  your  time  with  those 
shiftless  reprobates  than  with  the  Lord's  own  saints." 

"  There's  sartainly  a  pick  among  saints,  Polly ;  but  those  poor 
creeturs  don't  mean  any  harm  half  the  time ;  and  nobody  seems 
to  pity  them,  and  everybody's  always  pickin'  at  'em  and  findin'  fault 
with  'em.     Somebody  ought  to  have  a  kind  side  to  'em." 

'•  They  should  behave  better,  then.  There's  no  excuse  for  wick- 
edness. ^First  pure,  then  peaceable,'  deacon.  That  settles  it.  I 
wish  you  was  like  Deacon  Trowbridge.  Did  you  ever  see  Pete, 
and  Hiram  Beers,  and  Ephe  Barnes,  hanging  round  him?  Do  you 
believe  he'd  spend  his  money  in  givin'  gingerbread  and  fire-crackers 
to  all  the  tatterdemalion  boys,  on  trainin'  days?  " 

Deacon  Marble  admitted  facts.  The  very  idea  of  such  conduct 
seemed  to  raise  a  picture  before  him  unsuited  to  sobriety. 


38  Noncood ;  or, 

'*  What  are  you  laughing  at  now  ?  You  are  as  full  of  levity  as 
flies  are.  "^ould  you  laugh  if  you  was  dying  ?  I  really  believe  you 
would !  To  think  of  it !  A  deacon,  at  your  time  of  life,  chirpin'  as 
if  you  "was  a  cricket — and  goin'  round,  as  if  you  was  nothin'  bet- 
ter'n  a  bird,  singing  and  hoppin',  instead  of  being  a  deacon,  with 
an  immortal  soul  in  him !  Sometimes  I  am  afeerd  you  ai-e  in  the 
gall  of  bitterness  yet.  You  ought  to  examine  your  evidences, 
deacon.  Laughing  is  not  one  of  the  signs  of  grace,  I'm  sure.  It's 
av*  ful  to  be  deceived ;  and  you've  a  gOod  many  reasons  to  fear  that 
you  are  deceivin'  yourself." 

Don't  confound  Mrs.  Polly  Marble  with  a  mere  scold.  She  was 
a  woman  of  the  utmost  worth.  She  was  full  as  severe  upon  her 
own  doings  as  upon  those  of  her  other  self,  the  deacon.  She,  too, 
was  an  excessive  worker.  Her  vitality,  if  it  were  possible,  was 
greater  than  her  husband's.  "VThen  she  had  risen  at  four  o'clock, 
and,  except  at  meals  and  prayers,  had  been  on  her  feet  every 
moment  till  night,  up  stairs  and  down,  in  the  dairy,  in  the  cellar, 
in  the  barn,  in  the  wood-house,  in  chamber  and  kitchen,  performing 
the  multifarious  duties  of  a  farmer's  wife  with  the  most  anxious  and 
conscientious  fidelity,  she  seemed  not  to  have  lost  a  particle  ot 
energy,  but  was  still  fresh,  vital,  and  intense. 

Nor  was  Mrs.  Polly  Marble  a  mere  drudge.  She  was  inquisitive 
of  everything  that  went  on  in  the  world.  She  read  the  Missionary 
Herald  every  month,  and  the  Boston  Recorder  every  week,  without 
the  omission  of  a  line.  She  remembered  whatever  passed  in  church. 
She  rode  every  week  into  town  for  an  afternoon  female  prayer- 
meeting,  and  stayed  to  the  night  lecture,  and  yet  no  one  could  say 
that  aught  was  neglected,  on  these  days,  at  home. 

Her  domestic  lectures  must  not,  therefore,  be  confounded  with 
those  which  spring  from  irritableness,  but  must  rank  with  the 
conscientious  labors  of  anxious  natures,  who  feel  conscientiously 
called  to  make  the  world  better,  and  who  use  their  tongue  as  the 
most  convenient  instrument  at  hand. 

B^t — this  will  never  do  !    We  have  quite  forgotten  Dr.  Went- 
worth  and  his  happy  household.     But  so  really  happy  were  they- 
aU  in  that  old  mansion,  that  they  never  seemed  more  mellow, 
genial  and  hospitable,  tlian  since  this  little  child  came,  that  they 
would  not  have  known  it  if  the  whole  world  had  neglected  them ! 

Two  years  had  passed  busily  and  happily  away,  when  the  event 


Village  Life  in  New  Fn^la?id.  39 

occurred  of  which  we  have  spoken,  in  the  fifth  chapter  .nrl  .    •  1 
was  given  to  the  household.     The  Mother  would  cdHtEnt   % 
that  was  a  favorite  sister's  name     The  faThor  lliV  .  t,    ^^^' 
that  united  her  to  the  flowers  h    so  much^^^^^^^^^ 
her  Rose,  because  it  was  so  sweet  a  name  fo      II*.  and  th?' 
she  was  named  Rn.A  Wn.. ^...v  ,  ^  ^'""^  ♦  '^^^  therefore 


she  was  named  Rose  Wentworthl' 


CHAPTER  V^n. 

A     MEEEY     CHAPTER. 

A  WAGON  loaded  with  empty  barrels  drove  up  to  Tommy  Taft's 
one  morning. 

"  Mr.  Brett  wants  to  know  if  you  can  fix  those  barrels  to-day  ? 
The  heads  want  resetting,  and  all  of  'em  want  hoops.  These  two, 
he  says,  want  two  iron  hoops  apiece,  besides  the  hickory." 

"Get  away  with  your  barrels!  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to 
work  to-day  ?  i^o,  by  Josey — I  don't  as  long  as,  '  I  can  read  my 
title  clear!  '  It  would  be  just  as  wicked  to  work  to-day  as  if  it 
was  a  Sabby  day." 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Uncle  Tommy  ?  " 

*'  Matter  enough — matter  enough !  We've  got  another  baby  ! 
Old  woman's  up  there  now.  I'm  goin'  up  to  the  prospect.  Work  ? 
Not  by  a  jug-full !  Tumble  off  your  barrels !  They  won't  spile 
afore  to-morrow.  Where's  old  Smasher  ?  Come  here,  old  fellow. 
Let's  go  up  to  the  doctor's." 

From  such  an  address  one  would  look  to  see  some  man  appear 
as  Uncle  Tommy's  companion.  But  it  was  to  his  wooden  leg  that 
he  addressed  the  endearing  epithet  of  old  Smasher. 

Tommy  Taft  was  about  forty-five  years  old.  A  big  head  he 
had,  round,  and  bald  down  to  the  top  of  his  ears,  but  at  that 
point,  for  some  reason,  the  hair  refused  to  retreat,  and  sprang  up 
with  such  vigor  that  it  looked  like  an  alattis;  as  if  the  hair, 
driven  down  from  the  heights,  determined  to  make  a  stand  and 
fight  for  its  rights.  His  eyes  were  small,  gray,  sunk  deeply  be- 
neath bold  eyebrows,  whose  hair  was  wonderfully  luxuriant,  curl- 
ing over,  and  standing  out,  in  immense  profusion.  A  big  nose, 
that  hung  on  his  face  like  an  old-fashioned  door-knocker,  and  a 
wide  mouth,  completed  his  portrait,  which  was  framed  in  by 
bushy  whiskers,  carried  under  his  chin,  leaving  the  chin  and  both 
lips  shorn  smooth.  His  voice  was  rough  and  deep,  and  his  man- 
ner, of  all  sorts  that  ever  were  found  in  man,  except,  always,  a  re- 
fined manner.    He  had  been  a  sailor  all  his  long  life,  and  brought 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  41 

inland  into  this  quiet  village,  all  the  odd  and  outlandish  waya 
which  a  sea-faring  life,  in  olden  times,  was  wont  to  breed. 

Why  is  it  that  children  take  to  these  great  shaggy  natures, 
seemingly  attracted  by  those  very  appearances  which  would  seem 
likely  to  repel  them  ?  Children  act  by  sympathy.  A  warm  heart 
attracts  them,  and  when  once  a  child's  confidence  is  gained,  these 
rudenesses  of  person  become  agreeable,  as  something  out  of  the 
common  way.  It  is  that  element  in  manners  or  person,  which  the 
heart  inspires,  that  wins  children. 

TVTio  in  the  village  did  not  like  Tommy  ?  ISTot  a  child  imder 
fifteen,  certainly.  His  poor  old  shop  and  house  was  the  fascina- 
tion of  all  the  young  folks  of  the  village  and  of  the  country 
round.  The  ground  fioor  was  a  cooper  shop  and  general  tinker- 
ing establishment ;  up  stairs  were  two  rooms,  plain  to  rudeness, 
and  as  rough  in  furnishing  as  if  they  had  been  hewed  out  and 
fitted  by  a  sailor's  axe  on  a  desolate  island  after  a  shipwreck, 
and  of  a-3  ill-assorted  materials  as  a  shipwreck  would  be  apt  to 
cast  up.  Yet,  there  was  an  indescribable  air  of  comfort  and  peace 
in  the  two  rooms. 

When  Uncle  Tommy  was  good  natured  he  seemed  always  to 
be  comically  in  sympathy  with  his  wife,  in  external  things.  He 
was  always  good  natured  when  he  was  sober.  He  was  sober  near- 
ly nine-tenths  of  his  time.  "When  these  infrequent  moods  were 
on  him  he  was  apt  to  be  profane,  but  never  blasphemous  or  foul. 
He  alternated,  during  such  excesses,  between  scolding  his  wife, 
and  religious  exercises  of  various  kinds. 

"It's  as  good  as  a  play,"  said  Hiram,  "  to  hear  Uncle  Tommy 
when  he  gets  the  steam  up." 

But  as  soon  as  he  recovered  from  his  aberration.  Tommy  came 
down  from  his  height  of  morality  and  religion,  and  became 
gracious  and  helpful,  with  a  rough  disinterestedness  which  was 
quite  touching.  All  the  children  repaired  to  him,  to  have  their 
toys  mended,  for  which  he  could  never  be  persuaded  to  take  a 
penny.  Boys'  knives  with  broken  backs,  or  blades,  or  handles, 
went  into  hospital  with  him ;  their  skates  and  sleds  in  winter, 
and  their  kites,  and  traps,  and  gun-locks  in  smnmer,  were  his 
peculiar  charge,  and  his  invariable  answer  was,  "  Oh,  we  mustn't 
charge  children  anything."  The  cheery  old  fellow  was  full  of  quips 
and  pranks,  of  stories  of  adventure,  drawn  from  his  former  sea- 


42  Norwood;  oi\ 

faring  life,  or  from  the  full  volume  of  sailors'  yarns,  wliicli  had 
accumulated  in  his  long  years  of  cruising.  While  he  was  Tvilling 
to  take  compensation  from  grown  people,  he  was  sure  to  reject 
any  attempt  on  the  parents'  part  to  requite  him  by  overpayment 
for  his  services  to  their  children. 

'  He  was  known,  too,  to  perform  services  for  those  poorer  than 
himself,  who  were  also  more  helpless.  An  old  black  woman  who 
lived  by  "  washing,"  had  fallen  sick  with  rheumatism ;  Uncle 
Tommy  was  heard  every  evening  for  a  week,  sawing  away  busily 
at  her  u'ood,  until  he  had  provided  enough  for  her  needs.  A  gate 
that  had  got  unhingedj  would  some  morning  be  found  safely  tink- 
ered back  to  its  duty. 

If  a  poor  creature's  bucket  was  going  to  pieces,  in  some  mys- 
terious manner  it  got  to  itself  a  new  hoop,  and  the  pail  was  secured 
again,  by  a  rivet  in  the  ear.  The  pump-pin  was  replaced  when  lost 
by  a  new  one.  These  and  such  like  services  he  delighted  to  ren- 
der freely  to  those  who  were  comparatively  helpless. 

The  jolly  old  fellow  had  a  wink  and  a  word  for  everybody,  and 
his  passage  through  the  street  was  celebrated  by  a  stirring,  merry 
out-burst,  and  to  everybody  according  to  his  kind. 

It  was  impossible  to  separate  between  his  humor  and  earnest- 
ness, between  conviction  and  waggery. 

Good  Parson  Buell  sometimes  visited  his  shop  in  the  regular 
rounds  of  parochial  duty,  and  attempted  to  talk  faithfully  with  him. 
Tommy  owned  every  thing — made  no  resistance — yea,  went  before 
the  minister  and  beyond  him,  in  self-accusations. 

"  Do  yon  not  feel  that  you  are  a  sinner  ? " 

"  I  know  that  I  am,  parson,  a  sinner — an  awful  sinner ;  and 
without  excuse.  I  live  below  my  privileges  ;  I  don't  live  up  to  my 
light  and  knowledge.  To  set  under  such  preachin'  as  I  do,  Parson 
Buell,  and  not  to  be  better'n  I  am,  is  a  great  sin  ;  and  I'm  afeerd 
that  I  get  harder  and  harder,  and  that  I  am  puttin'  off  the  day  of 
repentance,  and  sinnin'  away  my  opportunities,  and  wastin'  my  day 
of  grace.  It  is  a  surprisin'  thing  in  me  !  I  don't  wonder  that  you 
are  alarmed  at  my  case,  parson.  It  is  a  very  alarmin'  case — I  know 
it  is.  It  has  been  alarmin'  for  more'n  forty  years.  I  ought  to  re- 
pent, that's  sartain!  Why  shouldn't  I?  It  is  well  said  that  it  is 
time  for  sinners  to  be  surprised  in  Zion.  The  rest  of  the  varse 
too,  is  very  alarmin'.     '  Who  among  us  shall  dwell  with  devourin' 


Villnge  Life  in  Neio  Evrjlaiid.  43 

fire,  and  wlio  among  us  shall  dwell  with  everlastin'  burnings  ? '  It 
is  sartinly  time  that  I  should  repent  of  my  evil  thoughts,  and  my 
drinkiu',  and  of  my  swearln',  and  of  my  manifold  evil  ways  and 
deeds,  and  I  hope,  parson,  you  will  pray  for  me." 

This  and  such  like  speeches  were  not  said  with  the  slightest 
accent  of  drollery  and  still  less  of  scoffing.  Dr.  Buell  himself 
could  not  have  uttered  them  in  a  manner  more  entirely  proper. 
He  never  seemed  in  haste  to  finish  the  conversation.  He  would 
follow  the  parson  to  the  gate,  still  descanting  on  the  sinfulness  of 
sin,  and  admitting  every  argument,  and  bringing  it  home  upon  him- 
self with  such  a  zeal  that  Dr.  Buell  found  nothing  to  do.  As  the 
good  man  left,  an  indescribable  sense  of  mirth  twinkled  in  Tommy's 
eyes,  and  happy  was  the  child  that  needed  his  services  after  a  visit 
from  his  pastor.  He  laughed  and  bubbled  over  with  fun,  and  con- 
trived some  new  plaything,  or  rejoiced  the  urchin  with  some  queer 
story,  and  sent  him  home  happy  as  a  king ! 

Tommy  Taffc  was  always  a  sailor.  Among  other  notions  was 
that  of  eating  with  his  sheath-knife,  which  was  an  exaggerated  jack- 
knife,  with  a  hole  bored  in  the  handle  and  tied  to  his  belt,  which 
he  wore  instead  of  suspenders,  by  a  long  yarn  or  string.  At  table 
he  would  draw  out  old  Rome?,  as  he  named  it,  and  refuse  any  other 
knife. 

Could  any  contrast  bo  greater  than  his  wife?  Gentle,  patient, 
happy,  with  an  undertone  of  sadness,  which  was  a  shadow  to  the 
high  light ;  refined  in  expression,  delicate  in  action.  She  seemed 
like  a  morning  glory  that  had  runup  on  the  knots  and  rugged  bark 
of  an  oak  tree.  "Whatever  rough  usage  she  received  at  his  hands, 
none  ever  knew  of  it  from  her ;  whatever  discrepancy  or  uncon 
geniality  there  might  be  between  them,  there  was  no  sign  of  it. 

Every  day,  when  her  home  duties  were  done,  Mother  Taft 
slipped  forth  for  an  hour  to  see  some  person  in  trouble.  She  had 
a  remarkable  instinct  in  finding  out  trouble.  Better  than  a  physi- 
cian or  the  nurse,  she  knew  who  was  sick.  Better  than  the  clergy- 
man, she  knew  who  was  in  sorrow.  Nor  is  it  extravagant  to  say, 
that,  better  than  all  these,  she  knew  the  art  of  bringing  consolation 
to  those  who  were  in  sorrow.  Whatever  the  history  of  her  own  past 
life,  her  victory  had  made  her  a  leader  for  others  in  the  dark  land. 
When  Widow  Barnes'  only  boy  was  brought  home  dead,  flung 
from  a  horse  in  a  drunken  race,  on  a  muster-day,  the  first  person 


44  Norwood;  or, 

who  came  after  his  companions  had  laid  him  down,  was  AEother 
Taft.  All  that  night  she  was  with  her — ^in  silence  herself — doing 
everything,  listening  to  the  mother's  distracted  utterances,  keeping 
away  intrusive  curiosity  ;  and  with  exquisite  instinct,  encouraging 
her  grief,  that  it  might  spend  itself,  and  be  the  sooner  comforted. 

When  Maggie  Keech  had  been  turned  out  of  her  father's  house, 
it  was  Mother  Taft  that  went  after  her,  and  brought  her  to  her 
own  chamber,  and  nursed  her  in  her  sickness,  and  when  she  was 
again  strong  enough  to  work,  secured  for  her,  in  a  neighboring 
town,  a  place.     Happily,  the  babe  had  died. 

Go  where  you  would,  you  would  soon  meet  Mother  Taft  there, 
if  there  was  trouble.  Like  Uncle  Tommy,  she  received  wages  of 
the  prosperous,  but  of  those  in  moderate  circumstances,  nothing 
would  she  take.  She  served  others  for  the  reason  that  birds  sing, 
because  she  loved  to;  for  the  reason  that  dews  fall  upon  flowers, 
because  such  is  the  nature  which  the  heavens  gave  it.  Born  in 
the  air,  the  dew  hides  in  the  day-tirae,  but  comes  to  all  things  in 
their  night  and  darkness  to  deck  them  in  beauty. 

How  odd  that  she  should  ever  have  married  such  a  man  !  But 
thej  were  so  utterly  unlike  that  she  could  not  help  it.  Her  peace- 
fulness  felt  the  attraction  of  his  great,  boisterous  way.  Her  silence 
marvelled  at  his  elemental  talk,  which  rained,  and  blew,  and  at 
times  burst  out  into  squalls,  as  if  his  mouth  were  the  very  cave  of 
the  winds.  Her  trustful  simplicity  admired  his  shrewdness  and 
penetration  of  human  nature.  Her  literal  soul,  that  never  con- 
ceived a  jest,  nor  understood  wit  or  humor,  how  could  it  help 
going  to  a  nature  whose  every  sentence  was  so  balanced  that  it 
might  be  taken  either  way — earnest  or  ironical  ? 

In  one  of  these  IsTew  England  villages,  there  is  nothing  so 
original  and  racy  as  a  great  strong  nature  that  dares  to  say  just 
what  it  thinks.  Common  people  are  restrained  by  law,  by  moral 
teachings,  by  public  sentiment,  by  interest,  by  fear.  Their  real 
thoughts  are  smothered,  or  kept  alive  in  silence.  They  dare  not 
coin  them  into  words  and  put  them  in  circulation.  They  become 
so  used  to  caution  and  social  conformity,  that  they  cease  at  length 
to  know  how  much  each  man  is  the  echo  of  the  other. 

Then  comes  along  a  great-footed  man,  like  an  elephant,  with 
nothing  to  gain  or  lose  by  men's  opinions,  and  determined  to  say 
what  he  has  a  mind  to. 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England.  45 

He  runs  against  custom,  throws  down  the  fences,plnnges  across 
gardens  and  fields !  If,  li-owever,  lie  has  a  human  heart,  and  at 
bottom  is  just  and  kind,  men  come  to  admire  his  audacity,  and  tc 
enjoy  his  blunt  speeches,  especially  if  he  have  great  faults.  Men's 
infirmities  are  the  strongest  bonds  of  sympathy.  No  matter  how 
much  better  a  man  is  than  we,  he  shall  be  forgiven  if  he  is  also  in 
some  things  a  great  deal  weaker  than  we.  Uncle  Tommy  was 
poor — that  was  one  good  fault;  he  was  never  "overcome,"  but 
sometimes  he  was  "exalted"  by  strong  drink — that  was  another 
redeeming  fault.     Being  a  sinner,  men  forgave  his  liberties! 

"  No  work  to-day.  Tell  old  Brett,  if  he  don't  like  it,  to  cooper 
his  own  barrels  !  "We've  got  a  baby,  up  at  the  doctor's.  I'm  going 
to  put  on  Smasher,  and  go  up  and  see  how  things  are  gettin'  on." 

Soon  he  bolted  out  upon  the  street,  and,  on  coming  up  to  the 
corner,  Hiram  Beers  shouted  out  across  the  street : 

" Halloo,  old  Dot-and-Go-One  !  where  are  you  bound? " 

"Better  put  a  snaffle-bit  in  your  mouth,  my  old  jockey,  to  hold 
that  tongue  of  yours.  They  say  you  opened  singin'-school  for  the 
crows,  Hiram,  and  they  wouldn't  come,  'cos  it  made  their  voices 
rough  imitating  yours — did  ye  ?  " 

Hiram  looked  up  the  street,  as  if  listening  to  something  in  the 
road,  and  then,  with  a  look  of  feigned  surprise,  said : 

"  "Why,  I  thought  I  heard  a  two-hoss  wagon  rannin'  away. 
Was  that  your  leg,  Tommy,  making  such  a  rattle?  Why  don't  you 
lie  it  ?  When  you  go  along  the  street,  I  should  think  a  hundred 
cupboard- doors  were  caught  in  a  gale  of  wind  !  " 

Having  thus  exchanged  amiable  salutations,  Hiram  came  over. 
"  How  are  you,  old  customer,  anyhow  ?  " 

"  Jolly  as  a  crew  just  paid  off.  Goin'  down  to  see  my  lady. 
Old  woman  been  down  there  for  a  month — child  born  two  days 
ago — goin'  down  to  see  it." 

All  the  children  born  under  the  administration  of  Mother  Taft, 
Tommy  considered  as  belonging  to  his  family,  and  always  spoke  of 
them  as  his  own.  A  stranger  would  hear  him  recount  his  children 
with  amazement  at  the  extent  of  his  parentage. 

A  little  further  on  one  might  have  heard,  loud  enougli  for  a 
deaf  man's  ears,  a  new  salutation. 

"  Good  morning,  Parson  Buell,  good  morning !  You're  looking 
well.     Study  too  much,  I  expect ;  but  ye  stand  it  well.     Good  ser- 


46  Norwood;  or, 

mons  ain't  drawn  up  easy  as  buckets  of  water  !  Have  to  work  for 
'em.  Miglity  sermon  that,  Sunday  morning!  This  old  sinner  felt 
it.  Says  I,  '  if  there  wasn't  another  soul  that  knew  it,  there  was 
two  in  that  audience  that  knew  what  a  good  sermon  was,  and  that 
was  Parson  Buell  and  Tommy  Taft ! '  Am  goin'  down  to  "Went- 
worth's.  TTouldn't  you  like  to  go  ?  I'm  not  ashamed  to  be  seen 
walkin'  with  you  !  You  see,  I  can  get  you  in.  Wouldn't  let  com- 
mon folks  in  so  early.  But  Ma'am  Taft,  you  know,  has  advantages, 
and  will  give  us  a  sight." 

Then,  his  voice  changing  and  lowering,  he  added : 

"  Parson  Buell,  it's  the  unaccountablest  thing  what  the  Lord 
sends  children  into  this  world  for,  considerin'  what  sort  of  a  place 
'tis,  and  what  a  time  folks  have  in  gettin'  thro'  it.  Lord  !  They 
die  off  like  apple-blossoms,  half  on  'em,  afore  they're  bigger'n  mice. 
And  the  rest  of  'em  have  a  hard  time  gittin'  growu,  and  when 
you've  got  'em  growed,  half  the  folks  are  paddling  round  as  if  they 
didn't  exactly  know  what  they  come  on  airth  for  ;  and  nobody  can 
tell  'em,  for  that  matter.  I  never  see  babies  but  I  think  how  we 
used  to  have  birds  come  aboard  ship,  way  out  to  sea — ^landbirds, 
and  so  tired,  poor  little  things,  and  hungry.  You  could  go  up  to 
'em  and  take  'em  in  your  hand,  and  they  turned  up  their  bright 
eyes  with  such  a  piteous  look  at  you,  as  if  they  had  come  from 
ever  so  far,  and  lost  their  way,  and  didn't  know  where  they  were. 
"Wall,  that's  about  what  I  think  of  babies.  What  do  they  come 
off  to  this  'ere  world  for  ?  "Why  don't  they  stay  where  they're 
weUoff?" 

Buell  was  well  used  to  all  Tommy  Taft 's  vagaries,  and  he  had 
that  good  sense  and  tact  among  men  which  enabled  him  to  take 
every  one  in  his  own  way;  so  he  walked  onward  with  Uncle 
Tommy  to  Dr.  "Went worth's  gate,  talking  jast  enough  to  avoid  a 
conversation. 

Uncle  Tommy 's  expectations  were  fully  realized.  Though  visit- 
ors were  not  yet  expected,  yet  Mother  Taft  proved  a  friend  at 
court.  Parson  Buell  had  humored  queer  Tommy  Taft,  not  expect- 
ing that  he  would  succeed.  When  he  found  himself  invited  in,  he 
feign  would  decline.  Tommy  would  not  allow  it.  "Xever'll  do 
in  the  world,  Parson ;  shouldn't  have  come  so  far,  if  you  didn't 
mean  to  go  further.  Can't  get  away  now.  Must  go  in  if  ye're 
civil." 


Village  Life  in  New  Engla7id.  4^ 

"But,  Taffc,"  said  the  perplexed  worthy,  "I  have  another 
erracd.    You  must  excuse  me." 

"  Parson  Buell,  you  know  excuses  are  dangerous.  You  shouldn't 
shirk  your  duty.  Duties  never  conflict,  you  said,  only  Sabby-day 
morning  last.  Don't  you  remember?  Hope  you  don't  forget 
your  own  sermons,  Parson.    That's  other  folks'  business." 

And  so,  like  a  slow  ship  with  a  tug  pulling  away  at  its 
side,  Buell  found  himself,  half  laughing  and  half  vexed,  ushered 
in  by  Tommy  under  circumstances  slightly  inclining  to  the  ludi- 
crous. 

The  babe  was  brought  down  by  Mother  Taft,  Agate  Bissell  fol- 
lowing. She  was  now  again  housekeeper,  as  she  had  been  prime 
minister  to  Mrs.  Wentworth  ever  since  her  arrival  in  Norwood. 
For,  in  this  tall,  slender  New-England  woman,  she  discerned  from 
the  first,  an  amount  of  energy,  conscientious  fidelity,  and  real 
afiection,  which  paid  a  thousand  times  over  for  the  inconveniences 
arising  from  her  hard  manner,  her  inflexible  precision,  and  her  des- 
potic regularity. 

Tommy  seized  the  babe  from  his  wife 's  arras,  and  fairly  danced 
with  delight.  He  chuckled,  and  chirruped,  and  Ho-ho  'd,  as  if  his 
reason  had  left  him.  Eough  as  he  was,  no  nurse  ever  held  a  babe 
more  tenderly  and  dextrously. 

But  when  he  suddenly  thrust  it  upon  Parson  Buell,  who  was 
talking  with  stately  Agate  Bissell,  the  good  minister  held  it  in  his 
hands  as  if  it  was  something  which  he  dared  not  drop  and  could 
not  hold. 

"  Why,  what 's  the  matter  ? "  said  Tommy,  "  is  it  hot  that  ye 
are  so  awkward  about  it  ? " 

Mother  Taft  came  to  his  relief,  and  the  good  minister,  leaving 
messages  of  kindness,  was  glad  to  get  away  from  the  ofiice  of  a 
nurse,  and,  full  as  much,  from  the  officious  humor  of  Tommy  Taft, 
who,  however,  followed  him  to  the  very  door. 

"A  good  baby,  parson,  but  come  to  a  poor  world — a  sinful 
world.  If  it  had  known  what's  good  for  itself,  it  had  better  staid 
away.  P'rhaps  it  wem't  asked  about  it !  Very  likely.  But  we 
must  make  the  best  on't  now."   - 

Turning  back  from  the  door.  Uncle  Tommy  foimd  Agate  Bissell 
ready  to  express  her  mind. 

"  Taft,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  You  stick  to  that 
3* 


48  Nonoood ;  or, 

good  man  like  a  burr.  You've  no  more  respect  for  your  betterg 
than  a  bull  has  for  good  manners." 

"  What  now,  Miss  Bissell  ?  "  said  Taft,  with  an  innocent  and 
injured  look ;  "  would  you  have  me  run  away  from  the  minis- 
ter ?" 

"  ITo — but  you  had  no  need  to  make  a  nurse  of  him,  and  make 
him  feel  ridiculous  with  this  baby  in  his  arms." 

"He  did  look  ridiculous,  didn't  he?"  said  Tommy,  with  a 
joyous  acquiescence. 

"  Of  course  he  don't  know  how  to  tend  babies.  If  it  had  been 
a  book  he  could  have  handled  it,  I  warrant  ye." 

"  What  a  pity,"  said  Uncle  Tommy,  with  a  very  sober  air,  "  that 
babies  weren't  born  like  books.  Then  they  wouldn't  trouble  any 
body — could  put  'em  up  on  a  shelf,  have  'em  always  dry — take  'em 
down  when  yon  want  to  use  'em — never  gi-ow  any  bigger— no 
trouble  to  anybody." 

"What  do  you  know  about  'em?  "  said  Agate,  with  great  pre- 
cision. "  Children  are  from  the  Lord,  and  they  come  on  his 
errands  and  in  such  manner  as  pleases  him.  And  it  don't  please 
him  to  send  them  by  men.  Naturally,  a  baby  is  a  woman's  care, 
and  men  are  always  awkward  about  such  things.  Everything  in 
its  place." 

"But  don't  you  think,  Mss  Bissell,  that  if  they  come  on  the 
Lord's  arrants,  they  forget  what  they  come  for,  afore  they  get  far 
along  ?  If  the  Lord's  got  any  arrants,  seems  to  me  he  ought  to 
send  something  better 'n  these  little  creeturs,  that  keep  two  or 
three  folks  busy  the  best  part  of  their  time  for  two  or  three  years, 
and  then  die  off  their  hands." 

"  It's  a  pity  that  a  baby  didn't  die  about  the  time  you  were 
small,"  said  Agate  Bissell,  straightening  up,  and  turning  somewhat 
scornfully  away  from  Tommy  to  his  wife,  who,  good  soul,  sat 
quietly  by,  as  if  the  conversation  was  merely  a  little  wind  out  of 
the  window,  whistling  through  the  sweet  brier  bushes. 

"  There'd  have  been  lots  of  crying  and  sobbin'  if  I  had  died 
young,"  said  Uncle  Tommy,  with  a  wink  at  his  antagonist. 

Nothing  ever  provoked  Agate  Bissell  so  much  as  one  of  Uncle 
Tommy's  winks.  She  deigned  neither  a  word  nor  a  look — but 
walked  out  of  the  room,  pale  and  straight  as  a  candle,  and  as  if 
she  thought  that  with  her  all  the  light  would  go  out  too. 


Village  Life  in  New  Enfjland.  49 

Mother  Taft  mildly  expostulated.  "  Father,  what  do  you  love 
to  provoke  her  for  ?     She 's  so  good." 

"  I  'd  as  lief  tend  flowers  with  a  crowbar  as  to  have  one  of  them 
old  maids  about  with  little  babies.  I  wonder  she  don't  take  the 
little  creetur  in  her  work-bag  and  walk  off  to  prayer  meetin'  with 
it !  You  need  to  watch  her,  mother,  or  she  '11  bile  down  a  cate- 
chism instead  of  mint  or  catnip,  when  the  child  has  wind." 

And  with  that  he  insisted  on  another  look  at  Rose,  who  lay 
sleeping  as  unconscious  of  all  this  whir  of  talk,  as  a  rosebud  in 
March,  hidden  deep  in  the  bush,  is  of  the  rough  winds.  The  old 
man  really  looked  beautiful  as  he  gazed  on  the  child,  .and  his  face 
seemed  to  catch  something  of  the  purity  and  brightness  of  child- 
hood. 

How  strangely  such  a  tender  spot  appears  in  an  old,  rude  nature 
like  Tommy's.  Rough  in  speech,  audacious  in  manner,  a  non-con- 
formist to  all  the  customs  of  society,  yet,  for  children,  showing  a 
rich  and  wonderful  love,  that  cast  its  light  over  all  his  faults,  and 
left  something  of  beauty  upon  them ! 

So  an  old  oak  tree — too  old  for  acorns,  too  old  for  leaves,  almost 
dead,  rugged  and  vast,  yet  bears  up  on  its  shaggy  branches  bunches 
of  vivid  green  mistletoe  most  beautiful — rejoicing  as  if  decay  and 
death  were  better  to  it  than  life. 


CHAPTER  Vni. 

A     SOBER     CHAPTER. 

Foe  months  little  Rose  lay  sleeping  for  the  greatest  part  of 
the  time,  folded  up  in  the  finest  wool,  Tvaking  into  good  nature  for 
an  hour  and  then  gently  sinking  back  into  the  land  of  sleep  and 
dreams.  The  doctor  came  often  to  the  unconscious  little  creature, 
as  she  lay  upon  Mother  Taft's  lap,  and  gazed  upon  her  in  silence 
and  deep  thought,  as  if  he  expected  some  revelation  from  her  face. 
He  waited  for  signs  of  intelligence  as  one  waits  for  a  star  to  arise. 

"  She  is  a  rose  indeed,  Doctor,"  said  Mother  Taft — "  is  she  not? " 

"  A  moss-rose,  if  you  call  these  hlankets  the  moss,  and  its  face 
like  the  tiny  bud  in  which  no  color  yet  begins  to  appear." 

"  Ah,  well,  children  don't  come  up  blossom  first  like  hyacinths, 
and  that  great  red  amaryllis.  They  are  like  laylocks  and  honey- 
suckles, that  grow  a  year  or  two  before  they  get  a  place  for 
blossoms  to  stand  on." 

And  with  that  the  good  dame  brought  up  the  blanket  about  the 
baby's  face  like  a  hood,  kissing  the  little  red  lips,  which,  by  the 
way,  she  did  with  every  operation,  as  if  kisses  were  pins,  to  hold 
fast  each  plait  and  fold  and  tuck. 

As  the  child  began  to  dawn  into  consciousness  more  and  more, 
the  father's  spirit  seemed  to  hover  about  her,  waiting,  like  one 
before  a  door,  for  some  one  to  come  forth.  As  the  summer 
warmed,  she  was  often  carried  by  him  upon  short  rides. 

"I  am  expecting,  my  dear,"  said  his  wife,  "  that  one  of  these 
days  you  will  prescribe  that  child  to  some  patient,  instead  of 
medicine." 

"She  is  food  and  medicine  to  me,  at  any  rate.  I  have  two  lives 
now." 

"Ah,  and  then  you  do  not  count  me?" 

"  Certainly — you  and  I  count  one,  and  Rose  makes  two." 

A  vast  elm  grew  upon  the  eastern  side  of  his  dwelling,  not  far 
from  a  clear  brook,  which  made  its  way  from  the  hills  down 
through  the  meadows  to  the  Connecticut  river.     On  this  rich  soil. 


Village  Life  i7i  New  En  (/land.  51 

and  near  a  copious  snpply  of  water,  whieli  the  elm  so  mucli  loves 
it  had  become  one  of  those  immense  domes  of  which  almost  every 
New-England  village  has  one  at  least,  but  in  which  Norwood  was 
peculiarly  rich.  The  huge  trunk  rose  some  fifteen  feet  before  divid- 
ing, and  then  sent  off  a  number  of  separate  stems,  each  one  of  which 
might,  if  alone,  constitute  a  large  tree.  These,  still  subdividing, 
at  last  spread  out  into  a  vast  concave,  and  the  pendulous  branches, 
with  graceful  curves,  returning  on  every  side,  like  a  network  of 
cords  wound  around  with  green  leaves,  almost  swept  the  ground. 
Under  this  vast  cope,  whose  top  was  full  of  sunlight,  while  cool 
shadows  lay  upon  the  ground,  the  doctor  loved  to  sit,  when  days  of 
leisure  gave  him  rest,  and  especially  upon  summer  Sunday  after- 
noons, with  Eose  lying  upon  his  lap — or  both  of  them  upon  the 
ground,  she  on  a  blanket  and  he  upon  the  grass. 

It  was  there,  on  a  bright  Wednesday  in  July,  when  Eose  was 
now  more  than  a  year  old,  that  Parson  Buell  found  him  in  the 
garden  watching  the  child.  Birds  overhead  were  flying  from 
branch  to  branch,  or  conferring  in  a  familiar  way  about  household 
matters,  coquetting  or  whirling  forth  in  love  wrangles,  while  a 
vii-eo  in  the  topmost  tuft,  quite  hidden,  sat  singing  by  the  half- 
hour  its  perpetual  melody,  whistled  in  phrases  and  recurring  bits 
like  short  sentences  in  a  music  lesson. 

They  fell  into  discourse  about  the  child ;  then  about  the  origin 
of  the  soul,  the  minister  affirming  that  nothing  definite  could  be 
found  in  the  Bible  respecting  it,  and  that  learned  divines  had  been 
exercised  in  mind  and  divided  in  opinions  about  it.  The  doctor 
said  that  no  light  had  been  thrown  upon  it  in  the  researches  of 
physiologists.  For  himself,  he  had  a  constitutional  horror  of  the 
notion  that  the  mind  was  material,  came  with  the  body,  as  a  rose 
with  the  bush,  and  died  with  the  body,  as  a  flower  with  its  stem. 
In  the  long  gradations  of  creation  matter  grew  to  finer  and  finer 
organization  and  subtler  uses,  but  there  came  a  point  at  which  it 
touched  something  higher  than  itself,  spiritual  existence,  not  to  be 
known  by  the  senses — which  can  only  act  in  their  own  province 
of  matter — but  to  be  discerned  by  the  soul,  which  could  recognize 
its  own  existence,  and  had  intuition  of  the  spiritual  element  in 
creation. 

"  It  is  remarkable,  Doctor,  that  you,  a  physiologist,  should  incline 
to  the  spiritual  faith, while  Judge  Bacon,  of  sound  education,  and 


62  Norwood;  or, 

not  given  to  the  physical  sciences,  should  hold,  as  I  suspect  he 
does,  the  physical  theory  of  mind." 

"  Judge  Bacon  has  no  ideality.  Imagination  is  the  very  marrow 
of  faith." 

"JBut  you  have  often  told  me  that  I  had  no  ideality — whatever 
that  may  mean.  How  is  it  that  the  deficiency  does  not  "work  in 
the  same  direction  in  both  cases  ?  " 

•'  It  does.  You  may  differ  in  regard  to  facts  and  convictions,  hut 
both  of  you  insist  upon  reducing  all  truth  to  some  material  equiv- 
alent before  yon  are  subject  to  conviction.  A  truth  which  does 
not  admit  of  a  logical  statement,  seems  to  you  a  phantasy.  You 
believe  not  upon  any  evidence  in  your  spirit,  but  upon  the  semi- 
material  form  which  language  and  philosophical  statements  give 
to  thought.  The  further  you  can  bring  a  truth  from  its  spiritual 
condition,  and  the  more  nearly  it  is  incarnated,  the  more  satisfac- 
tory is  to  you  the  evidence  of  its  existence.  But,  with  me,  I 
accept  facts  which  appeal  to  my  senses  as  the  lowest  possible 
truth,  and  as  appealing  to  the  lowest  aveuue  of  my  mind.  Mature 
is  more  than  a  vast  congeries  of  physical  facts,  related  to  each 
other  as  cause  and  effect,  and  signifying  nothing  else." 

"  What  is  signified,  then,  in  your  theory?" 

"  I  have  no  theory.  I  have  an  irregular  and  fitfal  conviction 
that  there  are  great  truths  of  the  affections  seeking  an  inlet  upon 
men,  which  flow  from  God,  and  which  reach  men,  rightly  sensi- 
tive, through  the  doings  and  appearances  of  what  we  caU  Xature." 

"  Pray  give  me  an  inkling,  Doctor ;  for  if  you  can  get  more 
from  nature  than  I  do,  perhaps  you  can  teach  me  how  to  help 
myself  in  the  same  way." 

"Look  at  Rose,  Dr.  Buell,  with  her  hand  full  of  dandelions. 
Don't  yon  see  that  a  beam  of  sunlight  has  struck  through  the 
leaves,  and  is  pouring  gold  on  the  child's  head  ?  See  her  wink, 
and  puzzle,  the  darling !  " 

"  What  does  that  sunlight  mean  to  her  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  except  to  her  skin;  and  there  it  means  trouble  and 
annoyance.  But  to  you  and  to  me,  it  means  beauty.  It  lies 
speckling  aU  the  ground  around  her.  It  moves  with  the  leaves 
as  if  it  had  a  life  of  its  own.  It  kindles  beauty  out  of  homeliness 
itself  if  it  but  touches  it." 

"  What  then  ?  " 


Villafje  Life  in  New  England.  53 

"  There  is  more  meaning  in  sunlight  than  a  child  knows,  or  can 
know." 

"  More  meaning  ?  That  is,  I  suppose,  there  are  e^ec^s  which 
the  child  does  not  notice  or  appreciate." 

"Do  you  believe  that  the  sunlight  can  produce  any  effect  not 
provided  for  in  its  original  constitution?  You  believe  that  God 
created  it.  Did  he  not  know  and  design  every  element,  and  every 
effect  ? " 

"  Surely :  surely  I  believe  it." 

"  Of  course  you  believe  it,  in  a  general  and  abstract  manner. 
Look  through  these  evergreens  1  S6e  that  clump  of  hollyhocks, 
white  on  yellow,  and  rose  on  crimson,  so  they  stand,  and  the  light 
falls  on  them  alone,  through  that  opening  among  the  trees.  They 
are  transfigured !  The  light  seems  to  palpitate  upon  them,  and 
on  the  crimson  blossom  it  fairly  trembles !  Is  that  all  mere 
materiality  ?     Is  there  no  moral  around  them  ?  " 

"  You  don't  mean  that  a  hollyhock  is  a  moral  and  accountable 
being  ?  It  is  an  unreasoning  and  unconscious  thing,  acted  upon, 
but  not  acting." 

"  Hold  !  Does  it  not  act  ?  Does  it  not  send  sheets  of  light  to 
my  eyes  ?  Does  not  that  raise  up  a  thousand  fancies  and  yearn- 
ings ?  Do  I  not,  in  its  exquisite  effects,  almost  see  through  mat- 
ter, and  into  the  other  life  ?  And  is  not  that  clump,  with  its  at- 
mosphere of  light,  the  instrument  producing  such  effects  ?  And 
when  God  created  light  and  flowers,  did  he  not  know  what  power 
it  was  possible  that  they  could  exert  upon  human  souls,  and  de- 
sign that  they  should  do  it  ?  They  have  a  moral  function,  even 
if  they  have  no  moral  nature  !  " 

"  I  understand  you,  doctor.  You  hold  that  there  are  two 
kinds  of  moral  agents — one  conscious  and  voluntary,  and  the  other 
unconscious  and  involuntary.  But  how  many  do  you  suppose  in 
this  town,  besides  yourself,  ever  saw  or  thought  of  such  things  in 
a  hollyhock  bush  ?    It  is  mere  fancy.    It  is  not  sober  fact." 

"  Fancy  is  itself  a  fact,  just  as  much  as  an  argument,  a  leaf  or 
a  stone.  God  made  the  soul  to  be  played  upon  by  its  fellows,  by 
the  whole  round  of  visible  nature,  by  invisible  things,  and  more 
than  all,  by  Himself.  If  shaking  leaves  stir  up  the  soul,  there 
was  •'  power  in  them  to  do  it,  as  much  as  in  the  soul  to  be  agitat- 
ed,    I  insist  on  a  living,  divine  power  in  physical  things.     Why 


54'  Norwood;  or, 

should  men  be  so  anxious  to  degrade  nature  ?  Is  it  unsafe  to  be- 
lieve that  God's  eje  follows  every  sparrow,  and  tliat  his  taste  un- 
rolls every  flower,  and  that  his  feelings  have  an  alphabetic  ex- 
pression in  all  natural  forms,  hai-monies,  colors,  contrasts  and 
affinities?" 

"  But  if  this  were  so,  would  there  be  so  few  even  of  educated 
men  who  derive  any  influence  from  those  things  ? " 

"I  will  answer  you  by  asking :  If  the  Bible  is  God's  word,  de- 
claring his  counsel,  as  we  both  believe,  would  there,  out  of  ten 
hundred  million  people  on  the  globe,  be  less  probably  than  a  hun- 
dred million  that  derive  a  single  influence  from  it  ?  In  both  cases, 
eyes  have  they,  but  they  see  not." 

For  a  long  time.  Dr.  BueE  sat  silent  and  thoughtful.  Had  it 
been  a  logical  statement  or  the  true  meaning  of  a  line  of  Scrip- 
tural texts,  he  would  have  been  full  of  resources  of  argument. 
But,  deficient  in  imagination,  and  trained  to  reject  it  in  all  inves- 
tigations as  an  element  of  error,  he  yet  could  not  but  perceive 
that  Br.  "Wentworth,  by  its  ministration,  found  in  iSTature  a  ground 
for  religious  faith  which  he  did  not,  while  at  the  same  time  he 
reverently  accepted  and  eminently  exemplified  the  teachings  of 
the  New  Testament. 

He  rose  and  walked  for  a  few  moments  along  the  edges  of  the 
shadow,  where  the  gold  sunlight  and  the  leaf-shadows  played  a 
game  of  reprisals,  back  and  forth,  taking  and  retaking  the  ground 
from  each  other  with  noiseless  conflict,  until  he  had  compassed 
the  circuit  of  the  great  elm. 

"Doctor,  there  may  be  something  in  your  views.  When  you 
state  them  they  strike  me  as  having  substance ;  but  when  I  at- 
tempt of  myself  to  think  of  them,  they  melt  in  my  hands.  When 
you  say  that  natural  objects  have  moral  ends,  you  do  not  mean 
that  they  constitute  a  part  of  the  commands,  motives,  and  intelli- 
gent duties  included  in  moral  government  ?  " 

"  I  surely  believe  that  they  supplement  these  things.  Physical 
laws  are  divine  commands,  and  so  far  they  are  a  part  of  moral 
government.  Whatever  affects  a  man's  soul  is,  for  the  time  being, 
a  moral  influence.  The  advent  of  Christ  may  be  a  more  august 
and  immensely  more  fruitful  influence  than  the  breaking  forth  of 
a  lily  from  the  ground  ;  but  when  our  Saviour  said,  '  Behold,  the 
lilies  !  lilies  were  ordained  to  act  a  part  in  morals." 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  55 

"  Do  you  think  that  a  flower,  in  and  of  itself,  has  any  moral 
meaning  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  that  words,  in  and  of  themselves,  have  any 
signification?  AVords  mean  whatever  they  have  the  power  to 
make  us  think  of  when  we  look  on  them.  Flowers  mean  what 
sentiment  they  have  the  power  to  produce  in  us.  The  image 
which  a  flower  casts  upon  a  sensitive  plate  is  simply  its  own  self- 
form  ;  but,  cast  upon  a  more  sensitive  human  soul,  it  leaves  there 
not  mere  form,  but  feeling,  excitement,  suggestion.  God  gave  it 
power  to  do  that,  or  it  would  not  have  done  it." 

"  Is  not  this  mysticism.  Doctor,  rather  than  common  sense?  I 
confess  that  I  perceive  in  plants  a  relation  to  matter,  to  my  senses, 
and  to  practical  uses  ;  but  when  you  make  them  preach  or  teach, 
or  do  duty  as  moralists,  unless  you  mean  it  in  a  metaphorical  way, 
I  am  puzzled." 

"Yonder  is  my  bed  of  hyacinths,  now  out  of  blossom,  and 
filled  up  between  their  rows  are  my  tiger  flowers,  yellow  and  red, 
every  day  and  all  summer  blossoming,  or  they  would  blossom  if 
the  moles  did  not  eat  up  the  bulbs  at  such  a  fearful  rate!  These 
underground  radicals!  you  can  hardly  rid  a  garden  of  them,  when 
once  they  become  numerous  and  neighborly.  No  matter  about 
that.  What  I  was  going  to  say  was,  that  I  consider  a  mole's 
opinion  of  the  structures  and  uses  of  my  hyacinths  to  be  very 
much  like — well,  excuse  me, — like  most  folks'  notions  of  moral 
truth !  The  moles  see  the  bottom  and  nothing  else.  Imagine  a 
mole  forming  a  philosophical  theory  of  my  bulbs.  In  mole's  lan- 
guage, whatever  that  is,  he  would  say :  '  a  hyacinth  is  a  vegetable 
creation  put  underground  for  the  benefit  of  moles.  It  is  round,  of 
a  sweetish  taste,  quite  juicy,  and  wholesome  for  moles.  It  has  been 
held  by  some  moles  that  a  hyacinth  has  an  existence  above  ground, 
and  speculatists  have  gone  so  far  as  to  say  that  this  root  is  only  a 
kind  of  starting  point,  while  the  best  part  of  the  plant  is  above 
ground.  But  there  is  no  evidence  of  that,  and  it  is  doubtless  a 
vagary  of  the  imagination.'  " 

The  minister  could  not  help  laugjing  at  this  fable. 

"  I  admit  so  muoh  of  this,"  said  he,  "  that  truths  may  have  only 
their  bulbs  in  this  world,  and  their  stems  and  blossoms  higher  up : 
but,^ven  so,  how  are  we  to  know  anything  about  these  fragrant 
biossoms  if  tney  are  m  another  medium,  and  above  our  reach  or 
investigation  ?  " 


56  Norwood ;  or, 

"  The  first  step  toward  knowing  is  to  be  conscious  of  not  know- 
ing. If  truth  can  be  sufficiently  learned  through  our  senses,  we 
shall  talie  no  further  pains,  and  be  content  with  a  little,  as  if  it 
were  the  whole." 

"  But  admit,  Doctor,  that  nature  is  full  of  some  hidden  mean- 
ings, as  you  call  them,  how  will  you  detect  them  ?  How  will  you 
distinguish  between  a  mere  fancy  and  a  substantial  reality?" 

"  Is  a  thought  necessarily  any  truer  than  an  imagination  ?  Is  a 
thought  anything  but  the  impression  produced  upon  a  facultyby  a 
certain  kind  of  truth  ?  Is  not  an  imagination  the  impression  pro- 
duced upon  another  faculty  by  another  kind  of  truth?  Is  not 
sight  as  much  a  sensation  as  hearing  ?  And  is  not  the  report  of 
one  faculty  to  be  taken  for  truth,  each  in  its  kind,  as  much  as 
that  of  another? 

"  It  takes  five  senses  to  report  to  us  all  the  qualities  of  matter. 
It  takes  twice  as  many  mental  faculties  to  determine  aU  the  prop- 
erties and  relations  of  a  truth.  KJnowledge  is  (like  white  light) 
that  condition  of  mind  which  is  produced  at  the  point  where  all 
the  faculties  on  which  a  truth  falls  join  their  reports." 

"  And  so  you  would  regard  the  imagination  as  needful  to  a  scien- 
tific investigation  ? " 

"  Xo  man  without  imagination  can  by  any  possibility  be  an 
acute  observer,  nor  a  sound  reasoner  even  upon  physical  facts,  still 
less  upon  truths  which  involve  some  mental  qualities." 

"  Do  you  think,  then,  that  poets  are  our  best  philosophers,  theo- 
logians, legists,  and  savaiis  ?  " 

"  There  is  scarcely  a  great  poet  who  would  not  have  been  em- 
inent as  philosopher  or  theologian.  There  is  not  one  theologian  or 
philosopher  in  history  who  had  not  in  him  the  elements  of  a  poet. 
And  he  is  indebted  for  fame  to  those  very  elements  of  poetry. 
His  special  dogmas  may  have  perished  from  out  of  men's  belief. 
But  the  great  truths  of  emotion,  expressed  with  poetic  feeling, 
live  on.  This  is  the  universal  and  immortal  part.  N'o  man  can 
express  the  great  truths  of  human  life  without  employing  all  his 
moral  and  esthetic  nature.  "So  man  ever  delivers  great  truths 
w^orthily  without  rising  into  eloquence  and  even  into  poetry." 

"  What  do  you  understand  to  be  the  difference  between  prose, 
eloquence  and  poetry  ?  " 

"  Prose  is  the  work-day  dress  in  which  truths  do  secular  duty. 


Till  a  (/e  Life  in  Neio  England.  57 

Poetry  is  the  robe,  the  royal  apparel,  in  which  truth  asserts  its 
divine  origin.  Prose  is  truth  looking  on  the  ground  :  eloquence  ig 
truth  looking  np  to  heaven.  Poetry  is  truth  flying  upward  to- 
ward God ! " 

"  Your  version  is  itself  poetic,  but  not  philosophical.  You  give 
me  a  picture,  not  a  discrimination  and  definition." 

"  Well,  common  prose  is  the  language  of  the  intellectual  facul- 
ties, acting  without  ideality.  "When  you  add  the  fire  and  figui  es 
which  the  imagination  inspires,  it  is  eloquence.  If  now  you  givo 
it  musical  qualities,  in  time,  flow,  and  rhyme,  it  is  poetry.  Or, 
again,  when  human  truths  are  spoken  as  they  exist  in  their  physi- 
cal relations,  that  is  prose,  science,  or  whatever  you  choose  to  call 
it.  Add  now  the  element  of  inspiration,  raise  the  same  truths 
into  the  light  of  those  faculties  which  are  distinctively  spiritual 
and  divine,  and  you  have  poetry,  and  this  is  the  highest  form  of 
good  sense,  or  reason  in  its  nobler  sphere." 

"  Apply  this  criticism,  Doctor,  to  your  notions  of  flowers  and 
scenery." 

'*  It  scarcely  needs  it.  It  is  not  poetry  to  say  that  that  part  of 
universal  life  which  belongs  to  the  vegetable  kingdom  has  a  moral 
relation  to  human  beings,  proved  by  the  effects  which  it  has  shown 
itself  capable  of  producing  on  fine  natures,  and  for  which,  it  is 
strictly  philosophical  to  infer,  they  were  adapted.  That  so  few 
perceive  it,  or  experience  it  consciously,  is  no  more  a  presumption 
against  its  nature  and  proper  uses  than  the  indifference  of  mankind 
to  the  movements  of  the  planets  is  evidence-  that  our  seasons  do 
not  arise  from  stellar  revolutions." 

"  Doctor,  I  cannot  fairly  say  that  I  believe  your  notions,  or  even 
understand  them.  They  give  you  great  comfort.  You  are  far 
happier  than  I  am.  I  do  not  know  as  that  is,  however,  any  pre- 
sumption in  your  favor." 

"I  am  happy — exceedingly  happy.  One  condition  of  it  is, 
of  course,  perfect  physical  health.  The  body  is  like  a  piano, 
and  happiness  is  like  music.  It  is  needful  to  have  the  instru- 
ment in  good  order.  But  that  is  but  a  beginning.  Something 
must  play  upon  the  instrument.  And  wlio  performs,  and  from 
what  musical  score,  will  determine  the  character  of  the  concert. 
Chickering's  grandest  grand  piano,  with  a  fool  playing  jigs  on  it, 
is  not  so  good  as  an  old  harpsichord  with  Beethoven  at  the  keys." 


58  Norwood;    or, 

"  Go  on — make  your  application." 

"  Well,  to  be  plain,  I  do  not  tMnk  that  you  are  happy,  be- 
cause it  does  not  seem  to  me  that  you  hold  converse  with  those 
truths  which  insure  hapj^iness.  Your  God  is  historic — mine  is 
living.  Your  God  is  in  a  temple  —  mine  every  where.  You 
have  excogitated  and  built  up,  element  by  element,  attribute 
by  attribute,  a  conception  of  God,  to  wliich  by  resolute  con- 
centration you  du-ect  your  thoughts,  without  help  in  symbol, 
natural  object,  or  any  instrument  whatever,  but  wholly  by  will- 
force.  Now  and  then  there  will  arise  out  of  this  stretching  void 
some  dim  image  or  sense  of  Divinity.  But  even  at  that  your 
conscience,  not  love,  clothes  Him.  You  have  little  helj)  from 
your  affections ;  less  from  ideality ;  none  from  taste  and  beauty ; 
and,  really,  you  worship  an  abstract  tlwugTit — a  mere  projection 
of  an  idea — not  a  whole  Mind,  a  Living  Being  !  You  and  I 
worship  the  same  Being,  and  agree  in  the  main  as  to  the  moral 
elements  which  glow  in  His  nature  ;  but  we  differ  practically  in 
our  way  of  reaching  Him." 

"  I  find  God  in  Christ  the  Saviour.  I  seek  Him  in  prayer,  in 
meditation,  and  in  His  Word." 

"  Thus  do  I  also.  But  not  so  only.  By  the  light  of  His 
Word  I  seek  Him,  in  a  living  form,  outside  of  His  Word.  God 
is  revealed  in  Chiist  as  a  man.  Now,  whatever  in  man  or  child, 
in  their  noblest  moments,  when  their  fervent  affection  upon  some 
unselfish  inspiration  breaks  forth  into  unusual  and  ethereal  forms, 
seems  to  me  more  than  a  suggestion  of  divinity.  I  see  flashing 
from  these  experiences  the  very  feeling  of  God.  Thus  I  can  in- 
terpret Sciii3ture  with  vivid  insight.  There  is  a  perpetual  com- 
mentary upon  the  New  Testament  running  through  human  life, 
and  you  are  afraid  to  read  it ! 

"But  besides  the  endless  interpretations  which  the  human  soul 
is  unfolding,  the  whole  natural  world  is  full  of  those  very  truths 
and  meanings  of  which  I  was  speaking  a  little  while  ago.  Sounds 
and  silences,  color,  forms,  the  life  of  insect  and  animal,  and  the 
endless  play  of  cause  and  effect,  I  accept  first,  as  scientific  facts, 
with  certain  scientific  relations.  Or  to  speak  exactly,  I  accept  the 
report  which  they  make  to  my  perceptive  reason.  But  they  create 
in  ray  breast,  besides  all  that,  such  heights  and  depths  of  sensibility 
that  I  know  that  they  have  a  moral -relation  to  my  moral  senti- 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  5d 

meuts,  and  that  while  science,  like  the  mole,  knows  the  root  and 
bulb,  faith  alone,  acting  in  a  spiritual  sphere,  recognizes  the  devel- 
oped stem  and  blossoms." 

Although  Dr.  Wentworth's  manner  was  usually  quiet,  almost 
producing  an  impression  of  indifference  and  impassiveness,  he  had, 
during  this  conversation,  grown  very  earnest.  Every  lineament 
of  his  largo,  pale  face  glowed,  and  his  eyes  exchanged  their  dreamy 
look  for  one  that  almost  flashed  visible  light,  as  he  rose  and  stood 
before  his  minister,  straightening  up  his  body  to  its  full  height  and 
said : 

"Dr.  Buell,  do  you  believe  the  Scriptures?  Do  you  believe 
that  those  very  heavens  above  your  head  declare  the  glory  of  God ; 
or  only  that  they  did^  four  thousand  years  ago  ?  '  The  earth  is  the 
Lord's  and  the  fulness  thereof,  the  world  and  they  that  dwell 
therein ! ' — now,  to-day,  here  in  this  field— yonder,  over  that  mead- 
ow, just  as  much  as  in  Palestine.  'Thou  crownest  the  year — 
Thou  visitest  the  earth — Thou  makest  the  outgoings  of  the  morn- 
ing and  evening  to  rejoice.  The  Lord  sitteth  upon  the  flood;  yea, 
the  Lord  sitteth  king  forevermore ! ' 

"Do  you  think  that  I  can  telieve  this  universal  presence  of 
God — in  the  sun,  in  the  seasons,  in  the  sea  and  on  the  mountains, 
in  tree  and  herb,  in  clouds  and  storm,  in  summer  and  harvest,  in 
the  city  among  men  and  in  the  wilderness, — and  yet  suppose  that 
Nature  has  nothing  more  for  the  soul  than  the  catalogue  of  scien- 
tific names  and  a  recitation  of  the  order  in  which  phenomena  hap- 
pen ?  Is  there  nothing  of  God  in  flowers,  in  forests,  in  birds,  in 
insects,  in  my  poor  garden,  in  yonder  valley,  along  the  mountain- 
flank,  in  those  thunder-heads  looming  up  white  over  the  horizon 
yonder  ?  or  is  all  this  only  meaningless  matter  ?  When  my  wife 
spetiks  to  me,  is  it  only  sound — wind  ?  or  is  it  a  movement  of  air 
upon  my  ear,  that  conveys  to  my  heart  deep  meanings  ?  And  is 
ibTature  mere  phenomena?  or  is  it  God's  phenomena,  meant  to  con- 
vey something  deeper  than  the  body  catches — something  for  the 
soul?  "Why,  then,  should  you,  a  minister  of  God,  hunt  through 
books  for  God,  and  stand  in  pity  of  me,  who  use  the  Bible  as  I 
would  a  Botany — which  does  not  contain  living  plants,  but  only 
word-descriptions  of  them.  K I  would  see  the  plant  itself,  I  must 
go  out  of  the  book  to  nature.  And  the  Bible  cannot  contain  the 
truth  itself,  only  the  wm^d-forms^  the  lettered  symbols  of  truth 


60  Nonoood ;  or, 

God  does  not  live  in  a  book.  Man  does  not  live  in  a  book.  Love, 
Faith,  Joy,  Hope,  do  not,  cannot  live  in  a  book.  For  tbe  living 
truth  we  must  go  outside  of  the  Bible  which  is  but  to  religion 
what  a  Botany  is  to  gardens,  meadows,  and  all  their  flowers!  I 
am  not  ashamed  to  owii  that- 1  feel  as  if  some  sort  of  positive  re- 
lationship existed  between  me  and  every  living  thing.  A  spice 
bush,  a  clump  of  wild  azaleas,  a  bed  of  trailing  arbutus,  a  patch 
of  eye-brights,  a  log  covered  with  green  moss, — these  all  seem  to 
iDe  of  my  family  kin.  The  spiders,  too,  the  crickets,  the  field-mice, 
and  all  the  swarms  of  birds;  the  worm — that  as  a  child  I  was 
taught  to  abhor — are  of  God's  family  and  mine.  Since  I  accepted 
the  New  Testament,  all  the  world  has  become  my  Bible.  My  Sa- 
viour is  everywhere — in  the  book  and  out  of  the  book.  I  see  Him 
in  Is'ature,  in  human  life,  in  my  own  experience  as  well  as  in  the 
recorded  fragments  of  His  own  history.  I  live  in  a  Bible.  But  it 
is  an  nnbound  book!  It  is  wider  than  that  I  can  reach  its  bounds. 
It  is  enough  for  me  that  I  believe  when  it  is  said,  'All  things  were 
made  by  Him,  and  without  Him  was  not  anything  made  that  was 
made.' " 

Dr.  BueU  walked  slowly  homeward,  as  one  who  saw  nothing 
but  his  own  thoughts.  To  all  who  found  fault  with  the  rigor  of 
his  teachings,  and  the  remorseless  logic  with  which  he  pushed  "the 
doctrines"  that,  to  him,  were  the  very  soul  and  marrow  of  life,  it 
might  be  replied — the  children  and  the  poor  loved  him!  "What 
says  such  a  fact  ?  This  :  That  he  had  a  deep  and  tender  heart ; 
that  while  his  head  was  like  the  granite  rocks  that  crop  out  of  the 
sides  of  the  hill,  his  heart  was  like  the  nooks  and  hollows  between, 
in  which  soil  deep  and  rich  had  collected.  The  figure  might  be 
further  pressed ;  for,  as  berry-bearing  vines,  growing  in  the  rich 
mould,  climb  up  over  the  rock,  and  cover  its  grim  face  with  a  veil 
of  comeliness,  so  out  of  the  heart,  full  often,  grow  forth  affections 
and  sympathies  that  go  far  to  hide  the  severe  beliefs  of  the  head. 
in  his  pulpit,  Dr.  BueU,  a  man  of  earnest  conscience,  clear  logical 
intellect,  narrow  in  his  range  of  thought,  but  intense  along  those 
lines, — was  jealous  of  the  Faith.  He  would  not  accommodate  it. 
He  would  not  make  it  soft  or  beautiful.  "  The  truth  should  be  as 
a  drawn  sword.  Men  are  in  danger  every  hour  and  moment ! 
How  dare  I  spend  my  time  in  etching  pleasing  pictures  on  the 
blade,  when  God  sends  me  to  swing  it  over  their  heads  as  a  flash- 
ing threat?" 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  61 

But,  when  he  came  among  the  sick  and  the  poor,  when  conso- 
lation was  the  duty,  his  soul  seemed  to  seek  relief  and  compensation 
for  the  stern  fulfilment  of  his  intellectual  duties.  Children,  too, 
found  his  smile  sweet,  and  his  ways  most  companionable.  To  be 
sure,  he  thought,  they  were  involved  in  a  common  ruin ;  but  the 
evil,  though  in  the  germ,  had  not  yet  greatly  developed  itself.  He 
used  to  say :  "  There  is  no  moral  virtue  in  children's  innocence 
and  simplicity,  but  they  are  pleasing  to  our  natural  susceptibilities, 
and  may  be  enjoyed  as  we  relish  food,  or  odors." 

On  this  homeward  walk,  however,  the  good  man  was  shut  up 
in  himself.  Cherub — the  blackest  of  all  black  boys— threw  a  cart- 
wheel two  several  times,  in  his  most  accomplished  manner,  with- 
out attracting  the  slightest  attention.  A  little  girl,  five  years  old, 
stood  in  the  crack  of  Judge  Mason's  gate,  and  held  out  her  little 
hands  full  of  dog-fennel  to  him,  as  if  it  had  been  a  flower  of  far 
more  attractive  fragrance,  and  wondered  at  him  that  he  passed 
without  a  word  or  gesture.  Not  till  a  curly-haired  boy  bounced 
out  of  the  door  yard  of  his  own  home,  glad  to  get  into  the  street, 
on  the  plea  of  seeing  'pajpa^  did  he  wake  to  external  things. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

AGATE    BISSELL. 

Agate  Bissell  was  tlie  stern  child  of  a  severe  experience.  Her 
father  was  poor,  and  would  have  been  industrious  but  for  an  un 
fortunate  habit  of  drinking.  Her  mother  was  a  woman  of  decision, 
of  pride  of  character,  of  high  moral  feeling,  but  subject  from  child 
hood  to  hard  work,  with  only  a  little  education.  She  grew  up  a 
kind  of  patient  warrior  against  trouble.  She  had  known  trouble 
from  childhood.  Poverty  before  and  poverty  after  her  marriage, 
were  but  minor  evils.  She  had  seven  childi-en.  The  third  child, 
but  first-born  daughter,  was  Agate.  No  where  except  in  New 
England  could  she  have  been  called  Agate.  Her  mother  was  an 
earnest  reader  of  the  Bible.  In  her  continual  troubles  she  resorted 
to  it,  literally  as  to  a  refuge.  Isaiah  above  all  writers  had  fired  her 
imagination.  There  was  something  in  the  hopefulness  of  the  stern 
prophet  amidst  abounding  troubles  that  seemed  peculiarly  con- 
genial to  her.  In  particular  she  dwelt  upon  the  fifty-fourth  chap- 
ter ;  so  often  had  she  read  it,  so  often  had  she  stayed  her  sorrow 
on  its  exultant  promises,  that  it  had  come  to  seem  like  a  voice 
sounding  out  specially  for  her,  and  had  her  own  name  appeared  in 
it  she  would  scarcely  have  been  surprised. 

Here  had  she  read,  till  they  mingled  with  her  waking  and 
sleeping  thoughts,  those  words  of  sublime  consolation !  Naturally 
high-minded  and  sensitive,  every  aspiration  had  been  almost  crush- 
ed. Her  husband,  a  good-natured  man,  could  not  be  redeemed 
from  his  cups,  and  to  her  proud  spirit  it  seemed  as  if  she  were 
bound  to  a  dead  body.  Awful  thoughts  sometimes  rose  up  in  her, 
a  horror  of  temptation,  which  sent  her  flying  to  her  chamber  for 
prayer  and  scripture,  like  a  dove  flying  from  before  a  swift-pursu- 
ing hawk.  Then  she  would  read:  "For  thy  Maker  is  thy  hus- 
band, the  Lord  of  Hosts  is  his  name.  *  *  *  For  the  Lord  hath 
called  thee  as  a  woman  forsaken  and  grieved  in  spirit.  *  *  *  For 
a  small  moment  I  have  forsaken  thee,  but  with  great  mercies  will 
I  gather  thee." 

On  some  days  the  clouds  came  low  down,  and  there  was  no 


Villa  (J  e  Life  in  Neio  Ed  (/land.  63 

horizon  of  hope.  Her  little  cliildren  were  hungry,  her  husband 
drunk,  her  own  strength  giving  way,  and  all  the  future  like  an 
on-coming  storm.  Then  she  would  read,  "For  the  mountains 
shall  depart,  and  the  hills  be  removed,  but  my  kindness  shall  not 
depart  from  thee,  neither  shall  the  covenant  of  my  peace  be  re- 
moved, saith  the  Lord  that  hath  mercy  on  thee  !  O,  thou  afflicted! 
tossed  with  tempest  and  not  comforted,  behold  I  I  will  lay  thy 
stones  with  fair  colors,  and  lay  thy  foundations  with  sapphires. 
And  I  will  make  thy  windows  of  Agates,  and  thy  gates  of  car- 
buncles, and  all  thy  borders  of  pleasant  stones.  And  all  thy  chil- 
dren shall  be  taught  of  the  Lord,  and  great  shall  be  the  peace  of 
thy  children." 

Tliis  touched  to  the  quick.  For  her  husband  there  remained 
only  the  sentiment  of  duty.  But  all  her  garnered  and  wounded 
affections  were  poured  forth  upon  her  children.  If  by  a  living 
death  she  could  save  them,  and  gain  a  firm  foothold  for  each  of 
them  in  honorable  life,  she  would  willingly  have  died  deaths  daily. 

In  her  poor  httle  dwelling,  it  may  be  supposed,  were  no  lux 
uries.  N"o  picture,  no  print  so  big  as  her  baby's  hand,  hung  on 
the  waU.  She  knew  no  rest,  no  amusement.  Her  whole  being 
was  a  concentrated  purpose  to  bring  up  her  children  so  that  their 
life  should  be  happier  than  hers  had  been.  For  that,  the  sun  shone 
— for  that,  summer  and  winter  came — for  that,  the  Sabbath  insert- 
ed a  seventh  golden  link  in  the  iron  chain  of  toil — for  that,  the 
whole  world  existed  to  her,  and  time  itself  drew  on  its  train  of 
days  and  nights !  On  her  feet,  in  work,  wrestling  against  poverty ; 
— on  her  knees,  in  prayer,  wrestling  against  temptations  and  de- 
spair, she  reared  her  children,  hoping  in  them  at  last  to  find  an 
end  of  sorrow  and  a  beginning  of  joy. 

"When  Agate  was  just  born,  she  looked  upon  her  face  with 
anguish.  She  seemed  to  see  aU  her  own  miseries  stored  up  for  this 
child.  She  almost  felt  a  pang  of  guilt  for  bringing  another  woman 
into  life  to  take  a  place  in  that  long  procession  of  sufferers,  of  which 
women  have  constituted  the  largest  proportion.  She  hardly  wish- 
ed to  look  in  her  face.  Long  before  the  minister  sprinkled  this 
little  new-comer,  her  mother  had  baptized  her  with  tears. 

As  soon  as  she  could  sit  up,  (and  the  poor  recover  from  the 
birth  of  children  sooner  than  the  prosperous! — A  rigorous  nurse 
art  thou,  oh  Poverty! — a  stem  physician,  and,  though  skilful, 
4 


64  Norwood ;  or, 

bitter  cruel !)  weak,  sad,  alone,  except  lier  little  children,  her  days 
were  darker  than  any  thing  but  the  nights.  There  was  little  differ- 
ence in  the  twenty-four  hours,  except  that  the  night  was  darkness 
plagued  with  dreams,  and  the  day  was  darkness  plagued  with 
gloomy  thoughts.  The  first  day  that  she  could  read,  her  oldest 
boy  brought  her  well-worn  Bible  to  her.  It  opened  of  itself  to 
her  favorite  chapter.  The  leaves  there  were  like  a  travelled  road. 
Let  the  book  fall  open"  a  hundred  times,  and  every  time  it  would 
open  at  the  same  place.  Then  she  read :  "  /  icill  make  thy  tcin- 
dows  agates.^''  A  window  is  that  by  which  light  comes  through 
upon  our  inward  darkness,  or  by  which  we  look  out  of  darkness 
into  light.  If  a  window  of  God  is  made  of  agate,  then,  she 
thought,  an  agate  must  be  something  more  clear  and  beautiful 
than  glass.  What  agate  was  she  knew  not,  but  it  must  needs  be 
something  glorious  and  hopeful.  '■^  A7id  all  thy  children  shallie 
taught  of  the  Lordy  That  was  the  very  anguish-longing  of  her 
heart !  She  seemed  to  have  it  borne  in  upon  her  that  children  are 
the  Lord's  windows,  through  which  mothers  look  forth  out  of  pain 
and  darkness  into  hope  and  happiness!  She  seized  the  happy 
thought :  "  I  will  call  her  Agate.  Perhaps  the  Lord  will  make  her 
like  a  window  to  my  darkness."     Thus  she  was  named ! 

"We  smile  at  names.  "We  weigh  them  in  the  scale  of  the  ear 
for  sweetness  or  smoothness.  "We  cull  some,  we  reject  others. 
TVe  laugh  at  men's  odd  and  awkward  names,  and  quite  justly  too,  it 
may  be ;  since  capricious  whims,  and  vagrant  fancies,  or  mere  care- 
lessness, so  often  select  them.  But  sometimes  a  name  is  a  history. 
It  is  like  a  pictured  vase.  We  see  the  figures  without  thinking  in 
what  furnace  those  colors  were  fastened,  and  by  what  fire  the 
glazing  was  fused !  Is  there  in  any  history  a  record  of  the  heart 
more  touching  and  simple  than  that  of  old  ?  "  And  it  came  to  pass 
as  Rachel's  soul  was  departing,  for  she  died,  that  she  called  his 
name  Ben-oni " — Son  of  my  Sorrow. 

Growing  np  in  such  circumstances,  it  may  well  be  supposed 
that  Agate's  life  was  one  which  would  bring  her  to  more  acquain- 
tance with  work  and  vigor  of  duty,  than  with  those  lighter  graces 
which  commonly  belong  to  prosperous  childhood. 

With  as  much  natural  conscience  as  her  mother,  she  had  a  less 
intense  pride.  She  could  not  sympathize  with  that  shuddering 
horror  at  her  father's  presence,  which  her  mother,  with  all  her 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England.  65 

struggles,  could  never  subdue.  Agate  stood  between  them,  loving 
both,  and  was  indeed  a  medium — a  window — through  which  each 
looked  upon  the  other,  colored  with  the  hues  of  the  medium. 

"When  at  thirteen  years  of  age,  her  father  died — unreformed, 
stupefied — Agate  really  mourned.  Her  mother  saw  the  turf  placed 
upon  his  grave  without  a  tear.  Her  soul  said,  God  hath  avenged 
me !  For  years,  the  mother  and  children  struggled  on.  Agate, 
besides  daily  work,  had,  as  it  were,  carried  away  captive  a  certain 
amount  of  education.  No  one  but  ho  who  has  tried  it  knows  what 
power  of  learning  there  is,  in  a  mind  every  faculty  of  which  is  tensely 
strained  with  desire  and  necessity.  She  read  with  eyes  that  pierced. 
What  she  read  was  as  if  it  had  been  burned  in.  At  seventeen,  she 
taught  the  summer  school  in  her  neighborhood.  Her  brothers  were 
her  care  at  home  as  well.  At  twenty-two,  her  mother  went  to  her 
rest.  On  the  last  day  of  her  life  her  mind  wandered  back  to  her 
brief  hours  of  early  joy.  She  half-spake  and  half-whispered  some 
fondling  words,  as  if  she  were  a  girl  in  the  days  of  courtship  and 
love.  Then,  after  a  little,  the  life-long  grief  seemed  again  to  over- 
shadow her.  "  Agate — Agate — He's  come.  Put  him  to  bed.  Oh 
God !  "  She  dozed  for  an  hour.  T7hen,  after  a  time,  Agate  looked 
upon  her  mother,  her  eyes  were  opened  wide,  as  if  she  beheld  new 
and  strange  things.  In  a  low  and  sweet  voice  she  said :  "  Yes — 1 
am  coming."  Before  the  sun  went  down,  she  had  departed,  and 
her  troubled  day  was  over. 

Agate  Bissell  was  respected  by  all  her  neighbors.  Her  common 
sense,  her  energy,  her  truth — clear  as  crystal— her  strong  moral 
nature,  would  have  made  her  a  remarkable  woman  anywhere. 
She  was  not  handsome  by  regularity  of  features ;  but  she  had  what 
was  better — the  open  and  strong  face  of  a  sensible  and  kind-hearted 
woman.  There  was  that  in  her  face  which  one  would  not  willingly 
see  kindled.  Her  power  of  indignation  was  terrible.  Young  Tem- 
pleton  found  that  out.  He  had  paid  attention  to  Agate.  Good- 
looking,  capable  of  working,  his  father's  dissipation  and  example 
had  not  acted  upon  his  self-indulgent  nature  as  a  like  sad  example 
had  upon  the  sterner  soul  of  Agate. 

Yet  a  certain  sympathy  she  had  felt  for  him,  from  a  somewhat 
similar  experience  of  their  lives.  Her  heart,  bound  around  with 
cords  of  restraint,  should  it  once  go  free,  and  love,  would  seek  ita 
mate  as  eagles  fly. 


66  Norwood. 

It  might  have  been.  It  never  was.  One  evening  he  waited 
upon  her  to  a  meeting  in  Norwood.  The  way  was  long, — not  too 
long  for  them.  "When  they  reached  the  village  Agate's  step  was 
light.  Her  face  had  lost  something  of  its  intensity.  The  light  of 
gentle  feelings  rested  upon  it. 

They  returned  home  that  night,  Tom  Templeton  and  Agate  Bis- 
sell.  Afterward  they  never  again  spoke  to  each  other.  "What  the 
history  was  neither  ever  said — he  for  shame,  and  she  from  scorn. 
For  years  his  name  kindled  upon  her  face  a  look  so  stern  and  deep 
in  moral  indignation,  that  one  would  not  willingly  look  upon  it. 
That  was  the  end  of  her  dream  of  youth.  When  at  thirty  she 
assumed  the  care  of  Dr.  Wentworth's  house,  not  a  tougue  in  all 
Norwood  dared  even  in  sport  to  say  that  the  doctor  had  a  yonng 
housekeeper.  One  had  better  play  with  fire  than  with  her  name. 
And  yet,  under  this  strong- featured,  pale  face,  who  can  tell  what 
stores  of  love  were  lying,  like  gold  undug,  in  fields  over  which  the 
plough  runs  and  vulgar  harvests  wave,  because  no  one  suspects  the 
gold  below  or  knows  how  to  extract  the  treasure ! 


CHiVPTER  X. 

DK.   WEXTWORTU'S   MANS13N. 

"We  take  shamo  to  ourselves  for  having  never  asked  our  friends 
into  the  Doctors  house,  but  left  them,  inhospitably,  to  wander 
about  Norwood  as  best  they  might.  Not  that  they  are  in  danger 
of  lacking  accommodations;  for  Norwood  is  not  unaccustomed  to 
company.  Hither  come  hundreds  every  summer  for  the  pleasure 
of  its  wholesome  air  and  the  beauty  of  its  charming  scenery. 
There  is  no  lack  of  hospitable  hotels ;  nor  are  the  landlords  un- 
skilled in  catering.  For  all  that,  our  readers  had  a  right  to  expect 
an  invitation  to  the  Doctor's  house ;  and  as  the  whole  family  are 
off  to-day  on  a  pic-nic,  we  will  steal  in  and  look  over  the  whole 
place.  This  intrusion  would  be  exceedingly  rude  in  actual  life ; 
but  in  books  such  things  are  often  done,  and  may  be  again  ;  and  if 
any  complaint  arises,  I  will  take  the  blame. 

Approach  the  old-fashioned  mansion  through  the  front  yard. 
First  take  notice  of  the  roof.  The  ancient  New-England  architects 
seem  to  have  had  a  vague  idea  of  a  Mansard  roof.  As  the  at- 
tempt was  carried  out  in  the  case  before  us,  it  resulted  very  nearly 
in  justifying  Hiram  Beers'  saying  that  the  Doctor's  rooi  looked 
like  an  old  woman's  cap,  with  spectacles  mounted  on  it ;  for  two 
windows  projected  from  the  steep  double-leaved  roof  in  a  manner 
that  invariably  suggested  a  pair  of  great  eyes !  And  as  there  was 
an  open,  ornamental  railing  carried  along  the  eaves  and  up  the 
gables  of  the  roof,  resembling  a  stiff  ruflQe,  the  notion  of  an  old 
lady's  cap  and  frill  once  hinted  could  not  be  got  out  of  the  mind. 

The  front  yard  was  deep.  A  straight  path  led  to  the  front 
door.  On  either  side  of  it  was  a  border  of  shrubs,  with  interme- 
diate spaces'  filled  with  flowers. 

A  porch  of  some  architectural  pretension  bestrid  the  front 
door,  and  was  itself  at  once  a  protection  from  rain  and  a  trellis  for 
honeysuckles. 

The  windows  on  either  sfcle  were  small,  if  compared  with 
modern  windows,  and  filled  with  glass  that  seemed  even  moro 
diminutive. 


68  Norwood ;  or^ 

No  mean  little  entry  receives  jou,  as  is  too  often  the  case  in 
modern  houses.  The  hall  of  a  dwelliog  gives  you  the  first  im- 
pressions. Sometimes  on  entering  you  fear  that  by  some  mistake 
you  have  got  into  a  clothes  closet ;  at  others,  you  enter  upon  a 
space  so  small  that  it  is  only  by  a  dexterous  interchange  of  civil- 
ities between  yourself  and  the  door  that  you  can  get  in  or  the  door 
be  shut.  In  some  halls,  so  called,  a  man  sees  a  pair  of  corkscrew 
stairs  coming  right  down  upon  him,  and  fears  lest  by  some  jug- 
glery he  be  seized  and  extracted  like  a  cork  into  some  upper  space. 
Often  the  doors  are  so  arranged  that  what  with  the  shutting  of 
the  outside  door,  and  the  opening  of  inside  ones,  the  timid  stranger 
stands  a  chance  of  being  impaled  on  the  latch,  or  flapped  front 
and  rear ;  for,  vigorous  springs  attached  to  the  doors  work  with 
such  nimbleness  that  one  needs  to  be  expert,  or,  having  opened  the 
door,  before  he  can  dash  through,  it  will  spring  back  on  him  with 
a  "now-I've-got-you"  air  quite  alarming. 

Such  houses  seldom  remit  their  torments  here.  There  is  an 
exquisite  symmetry  in  all  the  interior  adaptations.  You  finish 
your  visit  and  rise  to  depart,  taking  the  door  most  likely  to  let  you 
out,  and  find  yourself  walking  into  a  sweet-meat  closet ! 

A  young  beau,  having  acquitted  himself  well  of  the  last  critical 
sentences,  and  executed  a  half-backward,  and  wholly  awkward 
march  toward  the  door,  with  ineffable  satisfaction,  opens  and  steps 
into  the'china  closet !  The  little  girls  giggle ;  the  little  boys  laugh 
out ;  the  young  ladies  are  confused,  and  the  beau  still  more  so. 
But,  what  if  it  had  been  the  cellar  door  ?  On  one  occasion,  visit- 
ing a  thrifty  friend  whose  dining-room  and  sitting-room  were  one, 
I  came  near  descending  headlong  into  his  cellar,  which,  for  con- 
venience probably,  opened  into  the  dining-room.  I  once  saw 
three  like  and  equal  doors  in  a  sitting-room.  The  one  was  the 
true  door  of  departure ;  the  next,  the  cellar ;  and  the  third  a  bed- 
room.    There  was  only  one  chance  in  three  for  a  stranger. 

Do  you  not  think  that  a  house  reveals  the  architect's  disposi- 
tion ?  I  do.  We  know  much  of  a  writer  from  his  style.  The 
style  of  a  cautious  nature  will  have  involved  parenthetical  sen- 
tences, full  of  qualifications  and  limitations.  An  open  and  im- 
perious disposition  is  shown  in  Aort  sentences,  direct  and  ener- 
getic. A  secretive  and  proud  mind  is  cold  and  obscure  in  style. 
An  affectionate  and  imaginative  nature  pours  out  luxuriantly,  and 
blossoms  all  over  with  ornaments. 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England.  60 

The  same  is  true  with  artists  who  really  deserve  the  name. 
They  paint  what  they  see  and  feel,  and  it  is  this  self-part  that 
gives  the  style.  Some  suhtle  part  of  every  man's  own  spirit  goes 
with  his  ■work,  is  incarnated  in  it,  and  gives  to  it  that  undiscover- 
able  something  which  marks  and  discriminates  one  artist  from  an- 
other. And  so,  every  artist  dips  his  brash  in  his  own  soul,  and 
paints  his  own  nature  into  his  pictures. 

Why  should  not  the  architect,  then,  transfuse  into  his  work 
something  of  his  nature,  too  ?  Every  house  has  an  expression. 
Every  room  has  a  disposition.  Some  houses  are  precisionists. 
They  are  pinched  and  crimped,  and  you  almost  expect  to  see  a 
starched  ruffle  and  w^hite  apron  on  them.  Others  are  generous 
and  hospitable.  Every  time  you  look  at  them  they  seem  to  say : 
"  TThy  don't  you  come  in  ?  I  am  waiting  for  you."  Some  dwell- 
ings are  stately  and  dignified,  and  some  are  cosy  and  jolly.  Every 
day  I  see  houses  that  cannot  repress  their  scorn  at  beggarly  houses 
in  their  neighborhood !  The  door  has  an  excluding  air.  The  win- 
dows are  supercilious,  and  the  very  cornice  has  a  curl  of  well- 
bred  contempt.  But  it  is  in  the  interior  of  men  and  houses,  that 
the  real  disposition  must  be  found.  The  moment  you  enter  some 
dwellings,  your  heart  cries  out  spontaneously,  "  Peace  be  within 
thy  walls."  There  is  a  charm  upon  the  threshold,  a  joy  in  every 
room,  l^ot  a  minute  of  the  day  do  the  apartments  cease  to  breathe 
upon  your  ear,  you  are  welcome !  But,  shiver  as  I  do,  when  you 
enter  as  I  do,  this  selfishness  in  brick  and  mortar  !  The  architect 
was  a  mean  and  narrow  soul,  I  know  !  His  ceilings  are  only  fif- 
teen feet  high.  I  wonder  he  did  not  go  on  up  with  them  till  they 
were  as  high  as  he  felt  himself  to  be  above  common  men.  What 
a  good  ice  house  this  would  make !  What  repulsion  is  in  these 
walls !  As  you  stand  upon  the  threshold,  the  whole  hall  stares  at 
you,  and  says,  in  white  plaster,  "  Well,  what  do  you  want  here  ?  " 

All  such  fears  are  banished  as  you  enter  Dr.  Wentworth's  old- 
fashioned  mansion.  A  hall  twelve  feet  wide  opens  its  arms  to  wel- 
come you.  On  its  sides  hang  large  maps.  Toward  the  farther 
end  rises  a  flight  of  stairs  six  feet  wide.  They  say  to  you,  plain  as 
words  can  speak,  "do  not  weary  yourself."  The  short  rise  and 
broad  tread  suggest  ease.  And  six  or  eight  steps  being  taken,  the 
stairs  seemed  to  have  changed  their  mind  land  concluded  to  stop 
there.     For,  a  landing  some  eight  feet  wide  ran  across  the  whole 


70  Norwood ;  or, 


^ 


%vidth  of  the  ball.  And  the  space  was  still  further  augmented  by 
a  large  bow-window,  circling  out  backward,  which  the  Doctor 
had  built  and  filled  with  colored  glass.  Only  at  the  other  end  of 
this  landing  did  the  stairs  consent  to  start  upward  again.  Perched 
between  the  two  stories,  a  grand  look-out  was  thus  furnished  for 
snmnler ;— the  window  on  the  one  side,  and  the  lower  hall  and  upper 
hall  on  the  other — giving  ample  command  to  the  eye  of  all  that 
was  going  on.  In  summer  it  was  a  favorite  resort;  and  in  winter 
the  blaze  of  colored  light  always  gave  a  kind  of  sunrise  cheer  to 
the  hall. 

Midway  in  the  lower  hall  a  grand,  old-fashioned,  ebony-cased 
clock,  standing  on  the  floor,  reached  up  to  the  ceiling.  It  was 
not  only  a  time-keeper  of  hours,  but  of  days  and  months.  Its  sable 
vesture,  and  the  great  variety  of  its  duties,  gave  to  this  venerable 
instrument  an  absent-minded  air,  a  sort  of  reserve  and  dignity, 
which  well  set  off  the  easy  ways  of  all  the  rest  of  the  dwelling. 
That  clock  and  Agate  Bissell  never  lost  a  minute  of  time,  were 
never  tired,  and  attended  wholly  and  only  to  their  own  business. 
It  was  difficult  to  decide  which  of  the  two  was  the  more  exact  and 
regular.  In  any  single  day  the  clock  might  win ;  but  take  the 
year  together.  Agate  Bissell  undoubtedly  was  the  best  time-keep- 
er. She  had  the  whole  care  of  the  clock.  Dr.  'Wentworth  used 
to  rally  her  on  her  beau.  "  That  clock  is  an  enchanted  knight. 
Agate  is  waiting  for  him,  some  day,  to  make  proposals.  IsTothing 
less  than  such  matchless  graces  as  in  him  do  reside  will  ever  tempt 
her!" 

EosE— who  must  be  moved  forward  in  our  story  six  years — 
took  up  her  father's  imaginations,  and  wove  about  the  old  clock  all 
manner  of  fanciful  notions.  She  was  a  double  child.  Her  out- 
ward nature  was  sensible,  practical,  worldly ;  her  inward  nature 
was  deep  in  feeling,  solemn  and  mystical,  but  veined  and  traced 
throughout  with  the  richest  flow  of  imagination.  JS'one  except 
her  father  knew  this  inward  life ;  nor  he,  nor  she  herself,  except  in 
a  dim  and  twilight  way. 

She  was  just  the  one  to  make  a  hero  of  this  old  tall,  black 
clock.  To  her  its  strokes,  in  the  deep  nights,  when  summer  whip- 
poor-wills  had  waked  her,  were  voices  proclaiming  messages  to 
men.  To  look  upon  its  face  and  watch  the  rise  and  occultation  of 
pictured  stars,  and  especially  of  the  great  plump-faced  moon,  that. 


Villa (/e  Life  in  New  England.  71 

like  some  men,  always  seemed  scared  because  it  couldn't  see  any- 
thing— was  a  perpetual,  though  unspoken  pleasure.  But  we  linger. 
Opening  on  the  left,  as  you  enter,  is  the  Doctor's  grand  resort— 
his  library.  The  room  ran  through  the  whole  depth  of  the  house. 
The  ceiling  was  only  about  nine  feet  high.  The  centre  was  cross- 
ed by  a  dressed  beam,  and  the  cornice  all  around  the  room  was 
formed  by  the  carved  frame-beams  of  the  house  itself.  On  either 
side  of  the  chimney,  which  stood  midway  on  the  west  side,  were 
two  deep  bay-windows ;  and,  on  the  north  end,  one  large  window 
coming  down  to  the  floor,  and  of  the  size  of  three  ordinary  win- 
dows. The  sides  of  the  library  were  filled  with  cases,  and  the 
whole  range  of  English  literature  was  stored  in  them.  The  best 
authors  in  the  modern  languages,  too,  held  their  tongues  eloquently 
in  this  "Walhalla.  Drawers  stuffed  with  curious  pamphlets ;  lower 
cases  with  folios,  atlases,  etc. ;  portfolios  and  volumes  of  costly 
engravings— all  evinced  the  Doctor's  tastes.  Not  like  the  orderly 
study  of  Parson  Buell  was  Dr.  Wentworth's.  No  long  rows  of 
books  stood  stiff  and  stern  on  the  shelves,  like  soldiers  on  parade. 
Some  books  were  out  visiting ;  some,  in  an  affectionate  mood, 
were  leaning  over  on  an  accommodating  neighbor  ;  and  some,  tired 
of  their  heavy  contents,  had  lain  down  flat  and  gone  to  sleep,  as  if 
to  give  their  readers,  should  they  have  any,  the  proper  cue.  Some 
were  splendidly  bound,  and  flamed  their  golden  letters  from  blue, 
and  green,  and  crimson,  or  modest  russet.  Others  stood  in  cloth ; 
some,  in  paper.  Some  shelves  were  packed  and  stuffed  till  they 
seemed  bursting ;  others  stood  thinly,  like  a  school  half  of  whose 
scholars  had  gone  out  to  play. 

Here  was  the  true  peace-society.  Old  qaarrels  were  hushed 
here.  Heretic  and  orthodox  stood  in  silent  truce.  The  men  that 
kept  the  world  in  a  racket,  in  their  time,— Luther  and  they  of  the 
Vatican,  Milton  and  Salmasius,  Arminius  and  the  whole  Synod  of 
Dort,  Jesuits  and  Jansenists,  the  ancients,  mediaeval  scholastics, 
modern  reformers — were  patient  with  each  other  and  with  the 
rising  fame  of  modern  scientific  authors.  Books  are  the  true 
metempsychosis — they  are  the  symbol  and  presage  of  immortality. 
The  dead  men  are  scattered,  and  none  shall  find  them.  Behold, 
they  are  all  here  !  they  do  but  sleep.  At  your  summons  every  one 
shall  speak  and  instruct  you  in  the  best  experiences  of  his  life  ! 

Turning  from  the  hall,  as  you  come  in  at  the  front  door,  to  the 
4* 


72  Norivood ;  or, 

right,  you  enter  the  large  parlor ;  and,  next  to  it,  the  sitting-room ; 
and  a  door  from  each  room  opens  into  the  conservatory,  where 
there  was  summer  all  the  year  round. 

The  dining-room  and  kitchen  were  included  in  the  wing  which 
ran  back  from  the  south-east  corner  of  the  honse,  and  which  was 
of  such  dimensions  that,  had  it  stood  alone,  it  would  have  seemed 
a  house  of  itself. 

The  old  mansion  was  built  in  a  stately  style,  at  a  time  when 
stateliness  was  well  understood.  Few  modern  dwellings  are  more 
picturesque,  more  winning  to  the  eye,  than  the  best  of  the  old 
colonial  mansions.  They  tell  their  story  at  once.  They  proclaim 
comfort,  room,  hospitality,  and  elegant  taste.  They  are  passing 
away.  Perhaps  we  have  nothing  to  regret.  Convenience  and 
beauty  have  their  modern  architects.  Yet,  the  the  pictorial  art 
ought,  while  it  can  be  done,  to  secure  those  memorials  of  an  early 
day,  and  transmit  them  as  precious  parts  of  our  New-England 
history. 

But  stop.  Turn  back.  We  have  neglected  the  heart  of  home, 
the  mother's  room !  The  old  temple  had  no  such  holy  of  holies. 
The  mother's  room !  Here  came  she  a  bride.  Here  only  God^s 
angels  and  her  own  husband  have  heard  what  words  the  inmost 
heart  of  love  can  coin.  Here  were  the  children  born.  Here  in 
love  were  they  cherished,  in  piety  consecrated,  and  here  Hope,  the 
mother's  prophet  and  painter,  has  filled  golden  hours  with  a  wealth 
of  expectations  and  fancied  joys ! 

If  every  child  might  live  the  life  predestined  in  a  mother*s 
heart,  all  the  way  from  the  cradle  to  the  coflfin  they  would  walk' 
upon  a  beam  of  light,  and  shine  in  glory.  Alas !  some  are  born 
like  the  dandelion — glowing  bright,  soon  changing  to  a  fairy  globe, 
and  by  the  first  wind  dashed  out  and  gone  ! 

Paint  the  man  as  the  mother's  thoughts  do ;  then  paint  him  as 
he  really  lived !  Hang  the  two  portraits  side  by  side,  and  write, 
Wliat  Tie  icas  to  he  /  and  then,  WTiat  he  was  !  Life  has  no  sadder 
contrast. 

Shall  I  ?  It  is  audacious ;  and  yet,  for  your  sake,  reader,  I 
would  do  much.  Well,  come,  I  will  even  venture.  This  is  Agate 
Bissell's  room.  No  one  may  go  in  here  without  leave.  She  and 
her  room  are  so  much  one,  that  this  intrusion  she  would  resent  as 
a  personal  liberty.    I  know  that  politeness  forbids,  but  your  cu- 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  73 

rio8ity  and  my  love  of  accurate  description  prevail,  and,  as  usual, 
politeness  must  give  way  when  it  is  not  convenient.  No  rocking 
chair,  three  common  chairs — one  lower  than  the  others,  for  sew- 
ing,— a  mahogany  bureau,  with  an  old-fashioned  mirror  above  it, 
which  had  been  in  that  very  place  a  hundred  years,  and  had  seen 
— ah  !  what  had  it  not  seen  ?  But  most  honorable  of  all  friends  is 
the  looking-glass,  that  will  not  speak — that  keeps  no  secret  jour- 
nal for  future  treachery — that  meets  you  with  the  very  face  that 
you  bring  to  it — that  beholds  all  your  weaknesses  without  chiding, 
and  never  hints  advice ;  into  whose  placid  depths  sink,  as  into  a 
sea,  in  utter  forgetfiilness,  all  the  secrets  which  have  figured  on  its 
face! 

"What  if  one  had  the  power  to  recall  from  this  cold  and  passion- 
less glass  all  that  it  has  ever  seen  ?  What  if  there  should  be  a 
resurrection  of  that  which  has  been  buried  in  looking-glasses? 
Little  children's  faces,  anxious  mothers,  budding  girls  beginning  to 
suspect  their  own  beauty,  vain  and  giggling  looks,  grave  and  sad 
looks  of  those  who  hate  to  grow  old,  vexed  looks  of  those  who 
have  cut  themselves  in  shaving,  timid  and  anxious  looks  of  those 
who  have  been  sick,  double  images  of  lovers  glancing  upon  the 
sweet  picture  of  their  embrace,  prim  and  prig  pedants  touching  up 
their  gray  whiskers  and  covering  their  baldness  with  the  few 
strawy  locks  yet  left,  simple  and  wondering  looks  of  curly  an(f 
wooUy  Phillis,  whose  honest,  homely  face  is  just  as  dear  to  her  as 
if  it  were  Cleopatra's. 

Many  would  shrink  to  have  their  looking-glasses  reveal  their 
secrets.  Certain  it  is  that  Agate  Bissell  would  not  be  ashamed  to 
have  it  tell  all  that  ever  she  committed  to  its  trust.  Faithful,  pure- 
thinking,  upright  Agate !  Positive,  precise,  sprightly  to  tartness, 
who  more  than  thou  lived  wholly  for  others  ?  Who  ever  knew 
thee  fail  in  the  day  of  trial  ?  When  didst  thou  betray  a  secret  ? 
When  didst  thou  ever  shrink  from  giving  honest  counsel  because 
it  was  bitter  ?  Let  men  look  upon  thee,  Agate,  and  henceforth 
honor  those  words,  old  maid!  When  all  things  are  hereafter 
untied  and  the  contents  of  various  bundles  disclosed,  it  is  my 
opinion  that  as  many  noble,  self-denying  virtues  will  be  found  tied 
np  with  precise  bow-knots  in  some  of  those  vertical  rolls  called 
Old  Maids,  as  in  any  other  that  shall  appear. 

Open  the  upper  drawer !     Here  we  have  few  laces,  one  or  two 


74  Norwood. 

ornaments  seldom  worn,  and  then  only  as  a  special  honor  to  some 
much-honored  friend.  Be  touched,  as  I  am,  with  a  certain  tear- 
breeding  feeling,  to  see  how  little  the  poor  have  to  represent  their 
finer  tastes  !    Some  jewels,  however,  are  laid  up  for  them  hereafter. 

The  next  drawer.  This  is  fine  linen.  Not  much  of  it !  But  it 
is  as  white  as  snow.  Not  a  stitch  is  broken.  How  finely  folded ! 
How  orderly !  Agate  need  not  be  ashamed  that  it  is  so  little. 
She  makes  it  enough  by  wise  economy,  and  what  she  misses, 
some  poor  shivering  creature  is  wearing,  for  she  is  silently  gene- 
rous. All  the  fine  linen  of  the  saints,  is  not  that  which  is  made 
up  into  ascension  robes.  Some  of  it  may  yet  be  found  in  bureau 
drawers. 

Did  you  ever  see  a  room  with  so  little  in  it,  that  looked  so 
comfortable?  Find  a  speck  of  dirt !  Yet,  it  is  not  distressingly 
neat.  It  has  not  that  coffin  and  shroud  snugness  that  you  see  in 
some  rooms.  It  is  generous  and  home-like.  A  true  woman  lives 
in  it.  That  furnishes  any  room,  and  subdues  its  very  walls,  at 
length,  to  humane  and  gentle  expression ! 


CHAPTER  XL 

11  0  S  E  -  C  U  L  T  U  11  E . 

IIow  liappy  are  proud  people  I  No.  Ratlier  hew  happy  are 
peoi)le  of  pride  !     That  does  not  hit  it  exactly. 

How  fortunate  are  people  with  a  sovereign  self-esteem  1  I  ap- 
peal to  every  one  who  ever  felt  the  quality,  whether  pride  or  self- 
esteem.  Either  of  them  covers  or  describes  that  peculiar  faculty 
which  inspires  in  men  the  sense  of  their  own  being,  of  personal 
worth,  of  eminent  selfness — not  necessarily  selfishness. 

"Why  are  they  fortunate  ?  In  such  persons  there  is  apt  to  be  a 
central  content.  They  are  always  consciously  right.  They  al- 
ways speak  aright.  Whatever  they  do  is  right.  Whatever  they 
own  is  of  the  best.  Whatever  submits  itself  to  their  protection  ia 
right.  Righteousness  is  the  veiy  quality  of  their  experience. 
Why  should  you  reason  with  them  ?  It  is  crueland  useless — cruel 
to  disturb  such  profound  self-satisfaction  in  a  world  not  too  much 
given  to  happiness ;  and  useless,  because  it  is  an  instinct,  not  a 
conviction — an  involuntary  feeling,  and  not  a  deduction  of  reason. 

But  not  all  of  this  tribe  of  self-esteem  are  so  happy.  All  the 
worse  for  them.  If  this  potent  force  allies  itself  with  conscience, 
the  possessor  may  as  well  make  up  his  mind  to  be  in  bondage  aU 
his  life.  Then  the  sense  of  ownership  and  self-appropriation  acts 
chiefly  in  the  sphere  of  Duty. 

Agate  Bissell  could  not  be  said  to  have  pride  of  character  so 
much  as  Pride  of  Duty.  She  saw  every  thing  in  the  light  of  duty, 
and  she  measured  duty  by  tbe  high  requisitions  of  an  intense  pride. 
Every  one  may  see  that  she  had  business  on  hand  for  the  rest  of 
her  life.  Nothing  was  good  that  had  not  in  it  some  relation  to 
duty.  There  was  no  good  in  the  beautiful,  unless  in  some  way 
allied  to  practical  duty.  Happiness,  springing  from  duty,  -was  not 
altogether  to  be  condemned ;  yet  it  must  be  watched,  as  likely  to 
take  the  temper  out  of  the  cutting  edge  of  duty. 
,  There  was  no  member  of  Dr.  Wentworth's  family  that  did  not 
feel  the  pressure  of  honest  Agate's  conscience,  and  respect  it,  too. 
It  made  no  difference  that  her  good  sense  restrained  her  from 


76  Norwood ;  oVy 

meddling  with  other  people's  consciences.  It  is  impossible  for  aii 
energetic  nature  to  move  about  among  men  under  the  power  of 
any  great  central  faculty,  and  not  electrify  them.  You  may  carry 
a  torch  for  yourself,  but  cannot  keep  the  light  out  of  other  people's 
eyes. 

"  Rose,  have  you  put  away  your  night-clothes  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"Are  you  sure  you  folded  them  up  and  laid  them  in  their 
proper  place  ? " 

A  smile  came  over  Rose's  fair  face,  for  she  recollected  that  she 
had  laid  them  on  a  chair,  and  not  under  the  pUlow. 

"  Rose,  it  is  just  as  easy  to  do  things  right  as  wrong.  Go  right 
up  and  place  them  as  they  ought  to  be,  and  then  come  down  to 
your  lesson."  For,  Rose  was  already  a  proficient  with  the  needle, 
and  for  an  hour  in  the  morning  and  one  in  the  afternoon,  she  was. 
under  Agate's  special  instruction  in  reading  and  writing.  But,  on 
Saturday  the  lessons  were  in  the  Scriptures  and  the  Catechism. 
Rose,  by  nature,  was  one  of  the  fortunate  ones  who  obeyed  those 
in  command,  and  yet  always  had  her  own  way.  To  suppress  one 
tendency  was  only  to  open  another.  She  was  of  a  nature  so  foil 
and  vital,  that  her  happiness  seemed  little  checked  because  stopped 
in  this  or  that  direction. 

"  The  dear  child,"  said  Agate,  one  day.  to  Mrs.  Polly  Marble, 
"  is  so  good  that  I'm  afraid  she  may  not  live.  If  she  should  die  I 
don't  think  the  Doctor-'would  be  good  for  much." 

"  I  don't  think  you  need  take  on  'bout  it,  Agate,"  said  Mrs. 
Polly.  "  Mebbe  you'll  find  enough  human  natur  in  her  to  suit 
you,  afore  you  get  through.  I've  seen  just  such  children  before. 
There's  Hotchkiss — till  his  boy  was  ten  years  old,  he  was  so  good 
that  his  folks  was  afeered  he  wa'n't  long  for  this  world.  Ever 
since,  tho',  they  have  felt  easier,  for  if  there  ever  was  a  critter 
that  had  his  full  share  of  total  depravity,  it  is  that  Paul  Hotch- 
kiss. If  he's  ever  convarted,  tho',  he'll  be  a  smart  man,  especially 
if  he  has  it  thorough." 

"  That  may  be  true,  Mrs.  Marble.  In  this  world  it  is  not  safe 
to  trust  appearances." 

"  That's  just  what  I  say  to  my  deacon.  You  know,  Miss  Agate, 
that  there  never  was  a  kinder  creetur  nor  a  better  man  than  he  is, 
if  it  wa'n't  for  that  wicked  levity.     After  all  I've  done  for  him,  I 


Village  Life  in  Neto  England,  *i*i 

don't  see  that  he's  got  over  it  a  mite.  I  tell  him  that  nobody  ia 
sure,  as  long  as  he  is  livin'  in  this  world  of  temptation.  When  a 
man  is  safely  in  his  coffin,  then  we  may  be  comfortable — that  is,  if 
he  had  a  hope." 

"I  sometimes  think,"  said  Agate,  "that  I  should  like  Rose 
better  if  she  had  a  little  more — well,  a  little  more  nature : — some 
sparks  flung  off  now  and  then  makes  you  sure  there's  fire,  and 
that  it  is  not  all  ashes." 

"  Well,  I  really  think  I  shouldn't  trouble  myself  about  that. 
You  can't  tell  by  the  way  a  bean  comes  up  what  sort  of  leaves  it's 
goin'  to  have  afterwards.  Some  children  are  like  poke  weed. 
When  it  first  comes  up  it's  just  as  good  to  bile  as  'sparagus.  But 
in  a  few  weeks  it's  so  strong  it  would  drive  ye  out  of  the  house,  if 
you  was  to  put  it  in  the  pot.  IlsTow,  you  know  that  the  child  is 
depraved.  Everybody  is,  even  ministers  have  it,  tho'  I  reely  don't 
see  but  that  grace  has  subdued  it  in  Dr.  Buell.  Of  course  Rose  is 
— and  I  shouldn't  worry  a  bit  if  I  was  you.  It'll  come  out  in 
time." 

"  Mrs.  Marble,  if  there's  any  such  thing  as  spoiling  her,  the 
Doctor  will  do  it.  He's  the  strangest  man  that  I  ever  heard  of. 
Sometimes  I  think  his  books  and  his  foreign  learning  have  un- 
settled his  religious  belief.  Would  it  not  be  dreadful  if  he  was 
unsound !  I  know  Dr.  Buell  don't  think  so.  But  you  ought  to 
hear  him  make  fun  of  the  Catechism!  I  have  trouble  enough 
with-  the  children  anyhow.  The  other  Saturday  morning,  after 
I'd  got  through  the  questions.  Dr.  Wentworth  called  Rose. 

"  '  Rose,  what  do  the  apple-trees  principally  teach  ? ' 

"  Rose  understands  her  father,  and  her  face  looked  funny  all 
over ;  but  she  turned  to  me  as  if  she  didn't  want  to  make  fun  of 
the  Catechism : 

"  '  Answer  him,  Rose,'  said  I,  '  answer  your  father  I ' 

"  And,  do  you  believe  it,  she  looked  at  him  with  her  great,  full 
eyes,  and  said : 

"  '  They  make  me  think  how  beautiful  God  is ! ' 

"  The  Doctor  didn't  ask  her  any  more  questions,  but  went  off 
with  her  in  his  arms  down  into  the  garden." 

"  WeU,  Agate,  you  needn't  be  discouraged.  You  know  yon 
have  the  promises.  Besides,  his  wife  is  a  precious  woman ;  an«i 
that's  in  your  favor." 


V8  Norwood;  or, 

"  It  would  almost  break  my  trust  in  God,  if  Rose  shouldn't 
do  well.  No — nothing  will  ever  do  that,  I  hope !  But  then  you 
can't  have  such  a  chUd  by  you  for  six  or  seven  years,  and  not  have 
your  heart  bound  up  in  her.  I  can  teU  you,  Mrs.  Marble,  there's 
more  dangerous  idols  than  those  made  of  wood  and  stone." 

"A good  deal  worse!  'Eyes  have  they,  but  they  see  not,' 
saith  the  prophet.  Now,  them  idols  that  have  pretty  eyes,  and 
see  out  of  them  too,  is  a  good  deal  more  to  be  fear'd.  I  tell  my 
boys  so,  of  en." 

"  If  any  thing  could  spoil  Rose,  it  would  be  the  creatures  the 
Doctor  has  'round  her.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  he  contrived  to  pick 
out  the  very  worst  folks,  and  let  Rose  run  with  them.  There  is 
that  natural^  Pete !  I  do  believe  Rose  would  go  from  me  to  him 
any  day.  The  Doctor  lets  him  carry  her  about  the  meadows,  and 
woods,  and  down  through  the  swamp,  by  half-days  together." 

"  Well,  I'd  never  consent  to  that.  I'd  like  to  see  Pete  Sawmill 
about  my  house !  He'd  get  a  piece  of  my  mind  about  the  quick- 
est !     He  don't  do  her  any  good !  " 

"  The  Doctor  thinks  Pete  is  a  true  child  of  Nature.  He  is  not 
more'n  half-witted  anyhow.  But  the  fellow  is  curious  about 
knowin'  all  sorts  of  things  that  are  going  on  in  the  woods,  espe- 
cially if  there  is  no  use  in  them." 

"  That's  what  I  tell  the  Deacon.  '  Deacon  Marble,'  says  I,  '  if 
you  would  shove  out  of  ye  all  your  knowins  that  ain't  worth 
knowin',  and  then  fill  up  with  sober  matter,  you  would  be  a  sight 
better  deacon,  and  a  better  man.'  " 

"That's  much  so  with  folks  in  general." 

"  Yes ;  folks'  heads  is  pretty  much  like  their  garrets,  where 
all  the  rubbish  and  broken  things  they've  no  use  for  down  stairs 
are  stored  away." 

"As  if  Pete  were  not  enough.  Tommy  Taft  is  round  with  Rose, 
and  Hiram  Beers  rides  her  out  every  chance  he  can  get.  There's 
about  twenty  people  in  this  town  that  seems  to  think  that  they 
own  Rose ! " 

No  other  person  could  be  allowed  to  say  these  things  but  her- 
self. Should  a  neighbor,  or  one  whom  she  less  confided  in  than 
Polly  Marble,  indulge  in  unfavorable  reflections.  Agate  would  soon 
enable  them  to  understand  that  they  were  meddling  with  affairs 
that  did  not  concern  them. 


Village  Life  in  New  Midland.  79 

Now  and  then,  however,  but  with  reserve,  she  intimated  to 
Mrs.  Wentworth  her  fears  for  Rose's  "  bringing  up  ;  "  for  if  there 
was  one  thing  in  this  whole  world  which  Agate  had  determined 
should  come  to  pass,  and  had  staked  her  life  on  it,  it  was  that 
"  Rose  should  grow  up  good  and  pious." 

"Do  see  that  child!  She'll  be  stung  to  death,  as  sure  as  she's 
alive.  Rose,  Rose,  come  away  from  those  bees — come  here  this 
minute  I  I  do  believe  that  child  is  in  league  with  all  the  animal 
creation.  Nothing  is  afraid  of  her,  and  she  is  afraid  of  nothing. 
See  her  stepping  up  nearer  and  nearer  to  those  hives !  I  should 
have  had  as  many  stings  .stuck  into  me  by  this  time  as  a  baked  ham 
has  cloves !  She  comes  home  with  her  pockets  full  of  trash,  and 
with  vines  hanging  about  her  neck,  and  with  her  hands  full  of 
bugs  and  worms.  I've  given  up  trying  to  manage  her.  It's  in  her 
and  it  will  come  out.  If  you  stop  her  at  one  thing  she  just  goes 
straight  off  to  another.  And  she's  so  good-natured  and  so  quiet 
and  sweet,  that  you  never  think  it's  wilfulness.  But  she's  got  her 
father's  will  in  her,  if  it  is  covered  up.  She  knows  what  she's 
about." 

"  Only  yesterday  I  was  sitting,"  said  her  mother,  "  in  the  bow 
window,  just  as  twilight  was  coming  on,  with  my  sewing  in  my 
lap,  it  was  getting  too  dark  to  see  well,  when  Rose  came  marching 
in  : — '  Ma,  I've  got  something  for  you.'  '  Bring  it  here,  child,'  said 
I.  And  she  emptied  her  apron  into  my  lap,  in  a  sober  and  satis- 
fied way.  Of  all  things  in  this  world;  it  was  a  great  toad, 
speckled,  fat— ugh !  I  screamed  and  flounced  it  upon  the  floor. 
I  was  startled  in  good  earnest,  for  if  there  is  any  thing  disgustful, 
next  to  a  snake,  or  a  green  worm,  or  a  spider,  it  is  a  toad." 

"  What  did  she  do  ?  " 

"  Do  ?  She  looked  at  me  with  surprise, — then  demurely  picked 
up  the  loathsome  creature  and  walked  out  with  it.  I  spoke  so 
sharply  that  I  was  afraid  I  had  hurt  the  poor  child,  and  so  I  went 
out,  and  she  was  sitting  on  the  offset  laughing  all  over,  as  if  it  was 
the  merriest  experience  of  all  her  life!" 

Quite  unconscious  of  these  remarks,  the  object  of  them,  a 
chubby  child  of  six  years  old,  was  standing  by  the  very  edge  of 
the  shelf  on  which  scores  of  hives  were  ranged.  Bees  were  flying 
out  with  great  activity,  and  coming  in,  swinging  heavily  down, 
with  laden  thighs.     At  first  a  few  whirled  around  Rose  as  if  to 


80  Norwood ;  or, 

warn  her  off.  But  seeing  at  a  glance  vrho  it  was,  and  reporting 
the  news  to  their  companions,  their  excitement  and  curiosity  sub- 
sided, and  the  child  was  suffered  to  go  as  near  as  she  pleased  and 
to  do  as  she  liked.  If  one  lit  on  her  hand,  she  suffered  it  to  creep 
over  it  undisturbed.  Sometimes  an  in -flying  bee  would  get  caught 
in  her  haii* ;  she  took  no  pains  to  help  it  out ;  she  suffered  them 
to  go  and  come  as  they  would.  Sometimes  she  would  gather  flow- 
ers and  bring  them  toward  the  hives,  and  watch  the  workers  as 
they  eagerly  sought  the  honey. 

.  "That  child  is  the  doctor's  own  self  in  petticoats,"  said  Agate 
Bissell.  "  I  believe  that  the  Doctor  could  stuff  his  pockets  full  of 
bees,"  said  his  wife,  "  and  they  would  be  contented.  But  if  I  go 
near  the  bee  shed,  the  angry  things  fly  at  me  as  Rex  does  at  a 
beggar.  They  know  I  am  afraid  of  them.  They  dash  at  me  with 
such  a  way,  that  I  never  wait  to  see  what  they  mean  to  do,  and  so 
they  chase  me  fairly  out  of  that  part  of  the  garden." 

"  I  wonder  the  doctor  will  keep  them  ;  at  any  rate  so  many. 
The/e  must  be  as  many  as  fifty  hives,  and  more  coming  on." 

"  Oh,  it's  his  music.  He  would  not  hear  a  word  against  his 
bees.  On  bright  days,  that  are  stUl  and  warm,  he  lies  down  by 
the  >vindow  yonder  on  purpose  to  hear  them  hum  and  buzz.  And, 
I  confess,  if  I  am  only  safe  out  of  their  reach,  it  is  a  pleasant 
sound.  Though  I  do  not  want  them  to  appropriate  him,  or  make 
a  hive  out  of  his  hat.  Do  you  know  he  looked  for  it  yesterday  a 
half  hour,  and  then  found  it  among  the  bees  ?  He  says  Rose  car- 
ried it  thither.  I  say  Rose's  father  did.  But  the  doctor,  you 
know,  likes  pleasant  sounds,  as  a  kind  of  mental  stimulus.  The 
pleasure  of  music,  he  says,  consists  in  the  thoughts  and  feelings 
which  it  excites  in  us.  I  don't  know  what  bees  can  make  him 
think  of.  But,  if  any  thing  troubles  him  he  likes  to  get  where  he 
can  hear  the  bees,  and  then  he  seems  to  grow  quiet." 

"  That  is  better  than  to  brace  up  with  some  things,"  said  Agate. 

"  After  that  dreadful  surgical  case  he  came  home  looking  like 
a  dead  man.  His  face  was  stern  and  ghastly.  He  could'nt  eat  on 
that  day  before  he  operated,  and  trembled  when  he  left  the  house 
like  a  leaf.  But  they  say  as  soon  as  he  took  the  knife  his  hand 
was  firm  and  his  body  like  steel.  "When  he  reached  home  I  could 
not  get  him  food  quick  enough — ^he  almost  cried  for  it,  and  was 
sharp  and  peevish,  tUl  he  had  eaten  enough,  which  I  thought  he 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  81 

never  could  do,  and  then  he  went  out  by  the  window,  where  he 
could  see  the  verbenas  and  the  beds  of  petunia,  and  the  rows  of 
gladiolus,  and  lay  down,  and  let  the  bees  chant  to  him.  I  quite 
forgave  the  creatures  their  spite  at  me,  when  I  saw  how  much 
comfort  he  took.  After  a  while  he  fell  afleep,  and  woke  up  in 
half  an  hour  as  fresh  and  merry  as  he  always  is." 

"  I  hope  Rose  will  have  his  knack  of  being  happy.  Isn't  it 
queer  that  she  takes  so  to  Pete  ?  She  is  so  peculiar  about  liking 
and  not  liking.  I  think  they  are  a  match.  He  is  as  fond  of 
curious  notions  as  she  is.  But,  then,  1  don't  like  her  going  off 
with  him  all  day,  wandering  in  the  woods  and  poking  into  the 
swamps,  and  following  brooks." 

"  The  doctor  will  not  have  you  say  a  word  about  poor  Pete- 
He  thinks  him  the  only  Christian  on  the  place." 

"Except  when  he's  in  liquor." 

"  Yes,  he  owns  that  he  has  one  fault.  But  then  he  has  such 
outlandish  ways,  and  knows  so  much  about  the  animal  kind,  and 
is  so  unfit  to  take  care  of  himself;  he's  so  foolish  about  everything 
that  most  folks  care  about,  and  so  very  knowing  about  things  that 
are  of  no  sort  of  use  to  regular  and  respectable  people,  that  the 
doctor  thinks  he's  inspired." 

"  I  do  wonder  how  so  good  a  man  as  Dr.  "Wentworth  is,  should 
have  so  many  queer  notions.     "Well,  we  all  have  our  faults." 

It  is  doubtful  whether  Mrs.  "Wentworth  thought  so.  There 
was  not  a  woman  in  the  town  that  hovered  about  her  husband 
with  such  a  stream  of  opposition  as  she  did.  She  rallied  him  and 
chid  him,  and  laughed  at  him ;  she  put  upon  him  all  manner  of 
humorous  and  grotesque  imaginations,  invented  speeches  and 
imagined  situations  in  which  the  doctor  figured  ludicrously.  But 
there  was  within  it  all  such  an  unmistakable  fondness,  and  such 
playfulness,  that  no  one  failed  to  see  that  she  worshipped  as  well 
as  loved.  All  this  persiflage  was  her  way  of  hiding  or  showing,  as 
the  case  might  be,  the  strength  of  her  attachment.  For  all  the 
years  they  had  lived  together,  not  a  line  was  less  distinct,  not  a 
color  was  faded,  not  a  form  was  withdrawn  from  the  picture  which 
love  first  drew.  One  word  in  the  morning  of  earnest  love  filled 
the  whole  day  with  happiness.  "With  increasing  power  came  also 
a  growing  sensibility.  Never  when  he  first  spoke  of  affection  was 
it  so  hard,  with  open  face,  to  listen,  as  now  after  eight  years  of 


82  Norwood. 

intimacy.  The  blash  came  more  deeply  than  at  first,  the  eye  fell 
more  quickly,  the  nerve  trembled  more  freely.  Whatever  there 
was  in  her  nature  susceptible  of  development,  was  wholly  com- 
manded by  her  husband.  She  honored  his  strength.  She  re- 
joiced in  his  growiog\ufluence.  She  sympathized  with  his  tastes 
so  far  as  their  unlike  natures  would  permit.  But  to  have  owned 
these  feelings  would  have  been  as  impossible  as  to  have  spoken  in 
the  tongue  of  angels.  It  would  seem  as  if,  while  her  whole  life 
centred  upon  his  love,  she  would  hide  the  precious  secret  by 
flinging  over  it  vines  and  flowers,  by  mirth  and  raillery,  as  a  bird 
hides  its  nest  under  tufts  of  grass,  and  behind  leaves  and  vines,  as 
a  fence  against  prying  eyes. 

The  garden  was  the  doctor's  paradise.  Every  day,  therefore, 
he  heard  from  his  wife  some  amusing  narration  of  his  conduct. 
Birds  and  insects  were  near  of  kin  to  him.  Of  course,  birds  and 
insects  every  day  were  made  to  answer  for  all  manner  of  curious 
faults.  Every  day  the  indictment  varied.  Now  the  flowers  had 
beguiled  him.  Now  the  bees  had  infatuated  him  ;  now  the  birds 
had  quite  flown  away  with  his  wit ;  now  Kose  had  bewitched  him, 
or  he  had  gone  utterly  a  gadding  with  Pete  Sawmill. 

Mrs.  "Went worth  talked  both  with  quickness  and  emphasis. 
Her  voice  was  ringing,  but  very  sweet.  No  fibre  springing  from 
combativeness  was  twined  into  the  chord,  and  so  its  sounding  was 
never  sharp  or  harsh. 

A  single  hour's  acquaintance  would  suffice  to  discriminate  and 
sharply  to  separate  her  from  shallow,  talkative  women,  whose 
tongues,  like  a  turnpike,  lie  open  to  all  the  travel  that  comes 
along.  It  was  full  of  kindness  even  when  bantering.  It  was  often 
witty,  and  always  shrewd.  It  ran  on  as  a  vine  grows, — a  morning 
glory,  or  a  cypress  vine, — twining  round  and  round  whatever  it 
may  touch,  and  throwing  out  buds  and  blossoms  at  every  joint. 

"  There  .is  Rose,  mounted  and  riding.  It  is  the  last  we  shall 
see  of  her  till  dinner,"  said  Agate  Bissell. 

"  Longer  than  that.     She  goes  out  to  Cathcart's,  you  remem 
ber,  for  the  day.    Of  course  Pete  is  her  carriage.'" 


CHAPTER  XII. 

PETE    SA'WTIILL. 

Pete  Sawmill  himself  deserves  a  portrait.  He  was  a  huge  fel- 
ow,  Wack  as  night,  standing  full  six  feet  five  in  his  stockings. 
"  Good  for  wadin',"  he  nsed  to  saj.  "  That's  how  I  went  fishin' 
fast.  I  didn'  know  what  they  gave  me  such  legs  for,  if  it  wasn't 
to  wade  brooks  with !  "  He  derived  his  name  from  his  strength, 
and  the  fact  that  he  at  one  time  worked  in  a  neighboring  sawmill. 
The  boys  were  telling  a  story  one  day  of  a  bear,  that  had,  in  earlier 
times,  while  the  men  were  cutting  logs  in  the  neighboring  woods, 
wandered  into  the  mill,  and  seeing  the  men's  dinner  on  the  log, 
mounted  upon  it,  and  with  his  back  to  the  saw,  began  pulling  open 
the  cloth,  and  devouring  the  meat.  The  saw  soon  advanced  upon 
his  tail,  that  lay  flat  behind  him,  and  nipped  a  hair  or  two,  at  which, 
a  growl !  then  a  sharper  pull,  and  an  angrier  growl !  The  third 
slash  cut  to  the  bone,  and  brought  the  enraged  animal  around,  with 
a  furious  hug  at  the  remorseless  saw,  which  soon  rolled  him  oflF  the 
log,  with  sad  -rents  in  his  garments.  This  story  was  once  told  in 
his  presence,  and  Pete  declared  that  7ie  could  hold  the  saw.  And 
it  is  said  that,  getting  first  a  good  position,  and  wrapping  the  teeth 
well,  when  the  water  was  let  on  he  held  the  saw  so  powerfully 
that  it  could  not  get  into  motion.  However  that  may  be,  the  story 
was  always  told  of  him  when  his  name  excited  curiosity. 

Pete  was  one  of  those  peculiar  natures  that  can  never  be  organ- 
ized into  society,  but  live,  as  marmots  do,  by  burrowing,  in  the 
neighborhood  of  men,  without  living  among  them. 

He  had  the  strength  of  two  ordinary  men,  but  had  little  regu- 
lar use  for  it.  Good  nature  was  constitutional — and  laughing  may 
be  said  to  have  constituted  the  greater  part  of  his  language.  He 
began  his  sentences  with  a  flourish  of  te  he's,  and  tliey  mostly  de- 
liquesced into  guttural  chuckles.  TThen,  on  public  days,  trainings, 
and  elections  and  cattle-shows,  Pete's  discretion  in  drink  had  showm 
itself  to  be  small,  he  was  never  known  to  quarrel.  lie  settled 
down  in  some  corner,  and  talked  and  laughed  to  himself  with  very 


84  Nonoood;  or, 

much  tlie  same  sounds  whicli  issue  from  a  black  pot  of  hasty  pud. 
ding,  as  it  boils  and  splutters. 

But  these  periods  were  not  frequent,  and  Pete  was  in  demand 
for  such  work  as  required  strength.  For  short  spells  he  would  put 
forth  extraordinary  strength.  "  I'd  rather  have  Pete  to  lay  stone- 
walls with  than  a  yoke  of  oxen,"  said  farmer  Jones,  "  and  as  for 
thrashing,  he's  a  perfect  machine." 

'•  I  love  to  see  him  chop  wood,"  said  a  neighbor.  "  I  think 
Pete  prides  himself  on  the  way  he  swings  an  axe." 

"  "Well,  he's  a  right  to.  Just  take  him  on  a  frosty  morning, 
put  a  good  Collins  axe  in  his  hand,  and  then  see  him  lay  off  his 
jacket  and  mount  on  a  big  log,  and  then  he  lets  it  on  the  wood,  and 
the  chips  fly  so  fast  that  it's  dangerous  to  stand  in  front.  "When 
he's  down  to  the  heart  of  the  log,  the  side  of  his  cut  is  as  smooth 
as  if  it  had  been  planed.  There's  not  a  man  in  this  town  can  do 
up  a  cord  of  wood  as  quick  as  he  can,  and  as  for  splittin',  he  has  a 
natural  eye  for  a  log,  and  sees  just  where  the  crack  will  run.  Some 
folks,  you  know,  strike  and  strike,  and  turn  the  log  over,  and  try 
it  this  way  and  that,  afore  they  find  out  the  splittin'-vein.  But 
Pete  sees  it  the  minute  he  lays  his  eye  on  a  stick.  I  saw  him  one 
day,  when  Bose  Hadley'd  been  whalin'  away  at  a  big  oak  log  till 
he  was  out  of  breatb,  take  the  axe,  and  turn  the  log  over,  and  look 
at  both  ends,  and  then  square  away  and  let  fly,  and  the  axe  went 
through  the  log  so  slick,  that  it  fell  apart  like  two  boards,  and  his 
axe  went  a  rod  out  of  his  hands." 

"Pete  don't  know  much,"  said  another,  "but  what  he  does 
know  comes  to  him  mighty  natural." 

"  I  don't  know  about  his  bein'  so  ignorant.  His  head  don't  run 
on  books ;  I  doubt  if  he  knows  his  letters.  But,  if  I'm  butcherin', 
I'd  rather  have  him  than  old  Harvey  himself.  Then  he  has  a  natu- 
ral turn  for  horses,  specially  if  nobody  else  can  manage  'em.  Pete, 
somehow,  gets  in  with  'em,  as  if  they  was  related." 

"  He's  pretty  good  in  a  garden,  too.  Every  thing  lives  that  he 
puts  out.  I'd  rather  have  him  set  a  tree  for  me  than  do  it  myself. 
Pete  hain't  growed  away  from  natur'  so  far  but  what  he  knows 
what's  goin'  on  in  beasts  and  birds.  There  aint  his  equal  at  fishin' 
in  these  parts.  The  fish  just  cum,  I  do  believe,  and  ask  him  to 
catch  'em." 

"  He  don't  take  on  airs  about  it,  neither.     He  aint  stingy.  He'd 


Village  Life  in  Neio  Engla^id. 


85 


just  as  soon  take  you  to  the  best  brooks  and  the  best  places  as  not. 
But  then  that's  nothin'.  Very  like  you  cau"t  catch  a  fish.  The 
trout  knows  who's  after  'em.  They  w^ant  Pete  to  catch  'em,  not 
Tom,  Dick  and  Harry." 

"  You  mind  that  time  he  caught  that  trout  out  of  Holcomb's 
mill-poud,  don't  you  ?— Xo  ?     Well,  it  had  been  known  that  there 
was  an  awful  big  fellow  livin'  in  there.     And  I  know  a  hundred 
Iclks  had  tried  for  him.     Gentlemen  had  come  up  from  New  Ha- 
ven, and  from  Bridgeport,  aod  from  down  to  I^ew  York,  a-fishin', 
and  ever  so  many  of  'em  had  wound  up  with  tryin'  their  luck  for 
that  big  trout,  and  they  had  all  sorts  of  riggin'.    One,  he  tried  flies, 
and  another  worms  ;  sometimes  they  took  the  mornin',  and  some- 
times the  eveuin'.     They  knew  the  hole  where  he  lay.     He'd  been 
seen  breakin'  the  water  for  one  thing  and  another,  but  alius  when 
nobody  was  fishin'.     He  was  a  curious  trout.     I  believe  he  knew 
Sunday  just  as  well  as  Deacon  Marble  did.     At  any  rate,  the  dea- 
con thought  the  trout  meant  to  aggravate  him.     The  deacon,  you 
know,  is  a  little  waggish.     He  often  tells  about  that  trout.    Sez 
he,  '  One  Sunday  morning,  just  as  I  got  along  by  the  willows,  I 
heard  an  awful  splash,  and  not  ten  feet  from  shore  I  saw  the  trout, 
as  long  as  my  arm,  just  curving  over  like  a  bow,  and  going  down 
with  something  for  breakfast.     Gracious!    says  I,  and  I  almost 
jumped  out  of  the  wagon.     But  my  wife  Polly,  says  she,  '  What 
on  airth  are  you  thinkin'  of,  deacon  ?     It's  Sabbath  day,  and  you're 
goin'  to  meetin' !     It's  a  pretty  business  for  a  deacon  ! '     That  sort 
o'  cooled  me  off.     But  I  do  say  that,  for  about  a  minute,  I  wished 
I  wasn't  a  deacon.     But  twouldn't  made  any  difference,  for  I  came 
down  next  day  to  mill  on  purpose,  and  I  came  down  once  or  twice 
more,  and  nothin'  was  to  be  seen,  tho'  I  tried  him  with  the  most 
temptin'  things.     Wal,  next  Sunday  I  came  along  agin,  and,  to 
save  my  life,  I  couldn't  keep  off  w^orldly  and  wanderin'  thoughts. 
I  tried  to  be  saym'  my  catechism,  but  I  couldn't  keep  my  eyes  off 
the  pond  as  we  came  up  to  the  willows.     I'd  got  along  m  the  cat- 
echism, as  smooth  as  the  road,  to  the  Fourth  Commandment,  and 
was  sayin'  it  out  loud  for  PoUy,  and  jist  as  I  was  sayin' :  '  What  • 
M  required  in  the  Fourth  Commandment  ?' I  heard  a  splash,  and 
there  was  the  trout,  and,  afore  I  could  think,  I  said :  'Gracious, 
Polly,  I  must  have  that  trout.'    She  almost  riz  right  up,  '  I  knew 
you  wan't  sayin'  your  catechism  hearty.    Is  this  the  way  you  an- 


86  Norwood ;  or, 

swer  tlie  question  about  keepin'  tlie  Lord's  day  ?  I'm  ashamed, 
deacon  Marble,'  says  she.  'You'd  better  change  your  road,  and 
go  to  meetin'  on  the  road  over  the  hill.  If  I  was  a  deacon,  I 
wouldn't  let  a  fish's  tail  whisk  the  whole  catechism  out  of  my 
head ; ' — and  I  had  to  go  to  meetin'  on  the  hiU  road  all  the  rest  of 
the  summer.' 

"  "Wal,  Pete,  he  worked  down  to  the  miU  for  a  week  or  two — 
that's  as  long  as  he  stays  anywhere  except  at  Dr.  "Wentworth's, 
and  he  lets  him  come  and  go  about  as  he  pleases.  And  so,  one 
day,  says  he,  '  I'm  goin'  to  catch  that  big  trout.'  So,  after  the  sun 
was  gone  down,  and  just  as  the  moon  riz  and  lighted  up  the  tops 
of  the  bushes,  but  didn't  touch  the  water — ^Pete,  he  took  a  little 
mouse  he'd  caught,  and  hooked  his  hook  through  his  skin,  on  the 
back,  so  that  it  didn't  hurt  him  or  hinder  his  bein'  lively,  and  he 
threw  him  in  about  as  far  as  a  mouse  could  have  jumped  from  the 
branches  that  hung  over.  Of  course  the  mouse  he  put  out  lively 
to  swim  for  his  life.  Quick  as  a  flash  of  lightnin',  the  water  opened 
with  a  rush,  and  the  mouse  went  under ;  but  he  came  up  again, 
and  the  trout  with  him,  and  he  weighed  between  three  and  four 
pound." 

Agate  BisseU  could  not  be  expected  to  put  a  very  high  value  on 
one  who  had  only,  or  chiefly,  such  qualities  as  gave  Pete  his  repu- 
tion.  He  had  no  purpose  in  life.  He  had  no  trade  or  calling.  He 
was  an  idle  fellow ;  and  that  term  expressed  the  utmost  condemna- 
tion which  she  could  pronounce  upon  one  not  positively  guilty  of 
crime  or  vice. 

'"Doctor  Wentworth,  it  seems  to  me  that  Eose  might  find  a 
better  companion  than  that  lazy  fellow !  What  can  she  learn  of 
him  that  will  make  her  either  wiser  or  better  ?  " 

The  doctor  smiled,  and  only  looked  at  Agate.  This  habit  of 
hearing  what  she  said  without  reply  seemed  to  disturb  Agate's 
equanimity.  She  felt  it  to  be  but  a  way  of  saying  that  she  was  not 
worth  answering,  though  that  was  far  from  the  truth.  His  mind 
wandered  off  and  followed  out  what  she  said,  till  he  quite  forgot 
the  answer. 

"  Agate !  will  you  hand  me  that  large  folio  of  engravings  ?  " 

She  laid  it  on  the  table  and  opened  the  volume. 

"  Now,"  said  the  doctor,  "  do  you  think  it  makes  any  difference 
with  me  ijoho  opens  this  book  for  me  ?    The  contents  are  there,  and 


Village  Life  hi  New  F?i(/land.  87 

do  not  depend  for  their  value  on  the  person  Avho  opens  and  showa 
them.  So  it  is  with  Pete.  He  opens  the  book  of  nature  to  Rose— 
that's  all.  He  has  no  ideas.  He  can  hardly  speak  intelligibly.  Ho 
has  no  place  in  society.  But  he  is  strangely  alive  to  the  facts  of 
nature,  and  he  will  show  Rose  more  things  in  natural  history  than 
any  person  in  this  town." 

"  Of  course  you  can  do  as  you  please  ;  Rose  is  your  daughter 
If  she  was  mine,  I  don't  think  I  should  send  her  to  Pete  to  learn 
about  this  world,  or  that  to  come !  " 

"  Courage,  Agate  !  Between  Pete  and  you,  I  hope  to  make  a 
good  girl  of  Rose !  " 


CHAPTER  Xm. 

ROSE    AND   ALICE. 

It  was  a  mid-June  day,  the  very  balmiest  day  of  the  sweetest 
month  of  the  IS'ew-England  summer.  All  that  foreign  poets  say 
of  May,  in  our  northern  land  must  be  applied  to  June.  The  bois- 
terous winds  that  rage  in  March,  the  cold  nights  that  undo  all  that 
warm  April  days  have  done,  the  chilling  rain  blown  from  the  east 
upon  aguish  May,  are  all  past.  All  the  scars  of  winter  are  healed, 
and  the  conflicts  of  the  spring  have  issued  in  a  perfect  victory,  for 
whose  celebration  the  leaves  shake  out  their  ample  folds,  and  the 
flowers  lift  up  their  banners  in  every  field,  and  through  the  forests. 
Their  enemy  is  destroyed.  Frosts  are  dead,  and  flowers  are 
jubilant. 

It  would  seem  that  this  day  of  Rose 's  visit  to  Alice  Cathcart, 
was,  above  all  other  June  days,  transcendent  in  mild  glory.  Never 
were  the  blue  heavens  deeper  and  bluer.  ITever  were  clouds  softer, 
or  sailing  in  white  islands  with  more  tranquil  errands.  They  did 
not  troop  with  that  stern  and  brilliant  march  that  they  seem  to 
have  in  October  days,  as  if  they  mustered,  far  away,  to  some  call 
unheard  of  men,  for  battle  or  for  vengeance  of  storms ;  but  they 
moved  gently,  as  if  they  carried  in  their  plushy  depths  sleeping 
infants,  and  serenely  swaying  them,  rocked  their  slumbers  into 
sleep,  in  a  peace  high  above  earthly  sounds,  and  higher  even  than 
dreams  can  fly. 

But  what  foolish  creatures  birds  are !  They  saw  nothing  of  all 
this  beauty,  or  else  they  would  not  have  filled  the  air  with  such  a 
racket.  Blue-birds  whispered  their  brief  syllable  of  music;  the 
meadow  lark,  who  wears  a  black  heart  upon  its  yellow  breast,  as 
if  all  the  year  it  had  a  sorrow  incurable,  wailed  out  its  wild,  sweet 
dirge,  Eobins,  plump  and  familiar,  called  and  sung,  in  sober  jollity, 
from  every  orchard,  from  gardens  and  fields,  from  skirts  of  bushes, 
and  the  edges  of  the  forest — our  most  familiar  and  sweetest  sing- 
ing summer  birds. 

I  wrong  the  sparrow,  which  begins  earlier,  sings  more  constantly, 
and  holds  out  longer  than  the  thrush — singing  its  exquisite  strain, 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  89 

faultj  only  in  that  it  is  too  short,  till  summer  is  almost  over,  till 
the  sun  burns  the  grass,  till  flocks  are  silent,  till  the  lodusts  and 
the  crickets  come.  No  wonder  Rose  caught  her  breath,  as  a  song- 
sparrow  broke  out  in  its  tenderest  strain  right  above  her  head, 
while  they  were  passing  a  garden  edged  with  trees,  and  then 
clapped  her  little  hands,  as  if  asking  for  more.  Who  has  not  done 
the  like,  or  felt  like  doing  it  ? 

But  Pete,  on  whose  shoulders  Rose  sat  with  about  as  much  tax 
upon  his  strength  as  an  epaulette  imposes  upon  a  soldier's  shoulder, 
strided  on,  to  get  clear  of  town  and  the  outskirts,  and  reach  the 
brook,  where  he  left  the  road  and  sought,  if  not  a  nearer,  yet  a 
pleasanter  way,  across  lots,  to  'Biah  Cathcart's. 

Pete  was  entirely  happy.  He  had  Rose  on  his  shoulder,  who  sat 
perked  up  there  with  all  a  queen's  joy,  and  none  of  her  cares. 
Without  knowing  why,  she  felt  the  influences  of  the  day ;  and  feel- 
ings which,  later  in  life,  would  assume  definite  form,  and  submit 
themselves  to  reason  and  analysis,  now  sent  up  within  her  vague 
and  gentle  influences,  which  might  be  likened  to  the  air  about  her, 
filled  with  sweet  exhalations  from  the  ground,  and  odors  from  the 
woods,  and  sounds  of  every  kind. 

But  Pete,  himself  only  an  overgrown  child,  was,  if  possible, 
happier  yet.  Blindly  along  his  nerves  crept  something  of  the 
atmospheric  influences,  stirring,  it  is  probable,  no  such  nascent 
poetic  influences  as  thrilled  the  charming  little  nosegay  of  a  child 
on  his  shoulder,  but  which,  in  him,  were  developed  in  ways  of 
which  Rose  was  quite  unconscious.  The  venatorial  instinct  seems 
in  undeveloped  men  to  be  the  rude  germ  of  that  which,  in  civil- 
ized men,  grows  into  scientific  wisdom.  Persons  of  fine  organi- 
zation, but  without  education,  are  often  far  more  quick  to  discern, 
and  far  more  in  sympathy  with,  the  instincts  and  habits  of  animals 
than  wiser  men  are.  There  is  a  political  economy  of  the  woods 
and  fields,  as  well  as  of  cities  and  towns — an  animal  economy  as 
well  as  a  civic  economy.  Men  utterly  devoid  of  the  knowledge 
of  property,  production,  wages,  rents  or  values  of  any  kind,  have 
a  clear  insight  of  squirrels,  foxes,  marmots,  fish  and  birds,  in  all 
their  varieties. 

Pete  seemed  to  know  before  experience,  what  every  wild 
creature  would  do,  and  had  also,  apparently,  a  fascination  over  them. 
To  what  else  could  be  referred  the  almost  utter  taraeness  to  him 


90  Norwood;  or^ 

of  creatures  shy  and  wild  to  all  others?  The  quail  would  not 
rise,  but  ran  before  him  as  it  is  known  to  do  before  the  horse.  A 
partridge  would  not  fij  from  its  nest,  and  seemed  sure  that  Pete 
would  respect  its  domesticity.  Squirrels  ran  down  the  trees, 
jumped  and  pranced  along  the  gfound,  barking  and  jerking  their 
tails,  as  if  saying  among  themselves,  "  Oh,  it  is  nobody  but  Pete," 
and  went  on  with  their  frolics  in  conscious  security.  There  was  a 
league  of  peace  between  him  and  all  creatures.  This  did  not  ex- 
clude his  rights  of  snaring  and  fishing  ;  for  how  could  he  claim  a 
place  in  the  human  family,  if  he  had  no  right  to  destroy  life? 
But  it  is  probable  that  Pete  was  regarded  by  the  animal  kingdom 
as  a  kind  of  fate,  or  Providence,  and  that  when  he  saw  fit  to  take 
bh'ds  or  fishes,  it  was  eminently  proper  that  birds  and  fishes  should 
be  resigned  to  depart  without  questioning  his  wisdom  or  kindness. 

Kex,  a  !N"ewfoundland  dog,  that  seemed  to  be  another  Pete  run- 
ning on  all  fours,  seemed  this  day  to  be  in  ecstatic  state.  He  got 
out  of  town  with  only  a  few  capers.  But,  his  sobriety  was  all  a 
pretence ;  scarcely  had  he  reached  the  open  country  before  he  was 
scouring  the  pastures,  and  rousing  up  the  old  cows  to  great  excite- 
ment in  defence  of  their  calves,  while  two  or  three  brood  mares 
with  pokes  on,  their  colts  footing  it  fleetly  in  advance  of  them,  dis- 
appeared over  the  hill. 

"  Come  back,  Eex !  you  nigger  you !  Come  here,  you  liar  you  ! 
Ye  said  you  would  behave  if  I'd  let  you  come." 

Eex,  with  his  red  tongue  out,  came  at  once  to  his  senses,  and 
trotted  behind  Pete,  as  if  he  had  never  dreamed  of  an  irregularity. 
But  a  little  further  on,  over  a  bit  of  round  hill,  fed  a  few  dozen 
sheep,  and  he  could  no  more  help  going  ofi'into  them,  than  a  gun  can 
when  a  spark  lights  on  the  powder.  In  one  half  minute  there  was 
not  a  sheep  to  be  seen.  If  they  had  been  blown  away  by  the  wind, 
as  leaves  are,  they  could  hardly  have  made  such  expedition  as 
when  Eex  suddenly  appeared  among  them. 

"  Hup  !  Hup !  Eex,  you  villain  !  Come  down !  Come  down,  you 
rogue !  " 

Almost  before  the  sentence  was  finished,  Eex,  with  a  look  of 
the  most  undisturbed  good  nature,  came  over  the  wall  like  a  grass- 
hopper, leaping  first  and  looking  afterwards  ;  and,  as  the  wall  stood 
upon  the  crest  of  a  bank,  no  sooner  had  he  cleared  it  than  he  per- 
formed a  summersault,  and  rolled  down  in  a  manner  of  which  any 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  91 

dignified  dog  should  have  been  ashamed,  but  at  which  Rose  laugh 
ed  till  she  almost  fell  off  her  roost. 

Rex  seemed  really  penitent,  and  might  have  finished  the  journey 
■with  credit,  if  Widow  Hubbard  had  not  kept  geese.  The  moment 
he  ran  up  the  little  hill  which  overlooks  the  brook,  he  saw  them. 
Slipping  through  the  bushes  and  over  the  fence,  in  a  twinkling  the 
whole  flock  were  in  a  whirl.  Some  rushed  for  the  water,  some 
tumbled  over,  all  were  screaming  and  trumpeting,  and  several  hav- 
ing got  wing,  fiew  squawking  for  a  hundred  rods,  and  came  down 
from  sheer  inability  to  keep  up.  But  long  before  they  alighted,  Rex 
had  let  all  alone,  and  stretched  away  up  the  brook  to  take  a  smell 
and  a  scratch  at  a  woodchuck's  hole  which  never  failed  to  throw  him 
into  a  paroxysm  of  excitement  since  the  day  that  he  ran  a  marmot 
into  it. 

The  great,  succulent  leaves  of  the  skunk's  cabbage  were  fuUy 
expanded.  In  places  where  the  brook  spread  out  into  a  kind  of 
marsh,  cowslips  were  blazing  in  clumps  of  yellow,  and  as  they 
came  near  the  open  edge  of  the  woods,  spring  flowers  in  great 
variety  bloomed  in  endless  profusion. 

By  the  time  that  Rose  had  reached  the  same  point.  Rex,  his 
ardor  abated,  sat  on  his  haunches,  panting,  his  red  tongue  hanging 
out,  and  the  utmost  propriety  stamped  on  every  feature.  How 
little  are  dogs  to  be  trusted!  This  decorum  is  not  skin  deep.  You 
would  think  him  a  judge.  His  thoughts  run  upon  duty,  modera- 
tion, propriety !  If  you  believe  it,  just  let  a  red  squirrel,  or  a  chip- 
munk, put  its  nose  out  of  the  wall,  and  see ! 

Rose  would  dismount  for  a  few  flowers  which  she  espied.  Then 
she  must  needs  be  put  on  the  top  of  the  stone  wall,  next  the  bar 
post,  where  she  could  look  along  the  brook  valley  on  the  other 
side.  Here  the  little  queen  took  on  airs,  and  sent  her  Ethiop  to 
get  her  some  moss,  or  for  a  sprig  from  yonder  bush,  or  for  some 
white  pebbles  out  of  the  brook,  for  a  few  rushes  out  of  the  bog,  for 
some  partridge-berry  vines  from  the  edge  of  the  wood.  Around 
her  straw  gipsy  bonnet  she  had  arranged  a  coronet  of  leaves  and 
vines  and  flowers,  with  a  skill  that  showed  how  well  already  she 
had  learned  of  her  father  the  secret  things  which  flowers  tell  to  all 
who  have  their  senses  exercised  to  understand  the  secret  lore  of 
Nature ! 

From  her  lap  full  of  various  treasure.  Rose  looked  along  the 


92  Norwood ;  or, 

winding  brook,  along  the  narrow,  level  meadow,  whicli  stretched 
far  inland,  along  the  jutting  edges  of  the  forest,  to  the  far  off  blue 
hills.  She  forgot  where  she  was.  The  scene  grew  shadowy  and 
fantastic.  Already,  before  she  knew  the  words  by  which  men  ex- 
press it,  Kature  was  teaching  her  something  of  the  Infinite.  The 
visible  was  leading  her  to  the  invisible,  and  she  saw  dimly,  or  felt, 
the  power  of  the  world  to  come ! 

Of  old,  God  spoke,  in  watches  of  the  night,  to  young  Samuel 
sleeping  in  the  Tabernacle.  And  still  God  speaks  to  the  young  in  the 
greater  Tabernacle  of  Nature,  calling  them  with  voices  or  influences 
which,  if  understood,  would  reveal  strange  and  deep- things,  well 
worthy  to  be  known. 

Pete  was  sprawled  upon  the  ground,  watching  a  petty  ant-hill 
and  its  little  fiery  swarm,  and  was  coaxing  the  ants  to  crawl  on  hia 
black  hand,  when  Kose  summoned  him  to  resume  the  journey. 

They  came  to  the  pine  woods  in  which  winds  always  seemed 
to  Rose  to  be  moaning  and  sighing,  where  melancholy  birds  cried  : 
"  Cree-ah,  cree-ah,"  with  so  sad  a  tone,  that  Rose  could  have  cried 
for  them.  Through  this  strip  of  pine,  smelling  fragrant  of  resin, 
upon  the  cast  off  and  dead  leaves  that  never  more  rustle,  but  cover 
the  ground  with  soundless  carpet,  Pete  strided,  stopping  only  to 
point  up  to  a  crow's  nest.  Then  they  came  to  a  hardwood  grove, 
full  of  wild  azaleas  and  kalmias.  Partridges  nested  in  the  part 
that  ran  round  the  side  of  the  hill,  and  Pete  knew  where,  but  had  no 
time  now,  for  it  was  already  between  nine  and  ten.  But  he  must 
needs  show  Rose  a  hole  where  flying  squirrels  lived,  and  stopped 
in  one  little  open  glade  to  let  her  see  the  red  squirrels  run,  and  to 
listen  if  they  might  hear  the  wood-thrush  sing.  They  miglit  have 
heard  it ;  for  they  had  hardly  cleared  the  grove  before  it  filled  the 
woods  with  its  solitary  ecstasy.  Rex  knew  the  ground,  and 
though  there  were  endless  temptations  in  the  swamp  yonder,  and 
quails  on  the  edge  of  the  wood,  and  partridges  among  the  thick 
underbrush  under  the  ledge,  and  infinite  delight  all  round,  yet  his 
tender*heart  knew  that  he  was  drawing  near  to  Spark,  a  black 
and  tan  terrier,  now  only  separated  from  him  by  the  width  of  a 
field. 

As  Rex  came  over  the  wall  into  the  door  yard.  Spark  let  forth 
snch  a  stream  bf  barking  and  yelling  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  heat 
of  his  rage  had  melted  the  separate  notes  into  a  molten  solution  of 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  93 

bark,  which  terminated  as  suddenly  as  it  began,  when  Rex  came 
trotting  np,  proud  as  a  lion,  cany  his  ridged  tail  straight  up  in  the 
air  like  a  banner.  They  ran  round  each  other  witli  most  familiar 
smellings,  and  finally  broke  away  together  in  a  rush  down  the  yard, 
rolling  over  and  wrestling  and  racing,  until  suddenly  Spark  remem- 
bered that  ho  had  something  hid  under  the  barn — a  rat,  or  perhaps 
a  weasel,  or  who  knows,  it  may  have  been  a —  whatever  that  is 
which  a  dog  is  thinking  of  whet  he  rushes  off  to  poke  his  nose 
through  each  chink,  and  peep  in  K,t  every  hole,  and  smell  around 
the  whole  circumference  of  the  barn  and  its  sheds  I 

The  appearance  of  Rex  vaulting  over  the  wall  was  the  signal 
that  Rose  was  near.  Alice  had  been  waiting  impatiently,  and  good 
Rachel  Cathcart,  who  filled  the  whole  house  with  her  presence, 
and  yet  seldom  spoke,  and  then  not  above  a  melodious  whisper, 
had  she  said  what  she  felt,  would  have  owned  that  the  day  was 
a  little  brighter  for  Rose's  coming;  and  so  when  Rex's  black  muz- 
zle came  over  the  wall,  and  set  off  Spark,  every  body  ran  to  the 
door,  and  Alice,  with  her  black  hair  shining  in  the  sun  and  hanging 
down  her  shoulders,  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  and  watched 
on  tip-toe.  First  came  a  little  bit  of  color,  which  sunk  again,  but 
at  a  step  nearer  showed  a  face  in  it,  and  a  second  after  a  great, 
good-natured  black  visage  was  rising  over  the  wall,  and  Pete  sailed 
up  to  the  door,  giggling  and  gurgling,  as  was  his  manner  of  saluta- 
tion. Pete  gave  Rose  a  toss,  and  she,  light  as  a  bird  and  springy  as 
a  squirrel,  alit  by  Alice's  side,  and  each  of  them  disappeared  in  the 
other's  arms,  in  a  sort  of  general  mixture  of  kissing  and  caressing. 

Aunt  Rachel— Rose  always  called  her  aunt— stood  looking  at 
them  as  if,  for  a  moment,  all  the  world  looked  bright,  and  children, 
at  least,  had  a  right  to  be  happy. 

And  now,  what  were  the  girls  to  do  ?  Do  ? — the  morning  was 
not  long  enough  for  their  pressing  necessities !  First,  they  ran  to 
Alice's  room,  and,  with  much  confidential  and  low  talk,  inspected 
some,  I  know  not  what,  treasure — may  be  a  new  cap, — perhaps  a 
doll,— possibly  a  baby's  bed  or  bureau,— and  it  may  be  a  whole  suit 
of  doll's  apparel !  There  was  a  session  up  garret,  which  was  general 
play-room,  and  where  all  sorts  of  stow-aways  and  good-for-some- 
things — crippled  chairs,  dilapidated  bureaus,  old  fire-fenders,  and 
boxes  of  various  patterns,  give  endless  room  for  rummaging.  If  they 
find  any  thing,  well  and  good  ;  if  they  do  not,  they  make  it  all  np, 


94  •      Norwood;  or, 

sayiug:  "Oh,  Eose,  what  if  we  should  open  that  drawer,  and 
then  yon  should  see  a  gold  hird,  and  he  should  jump  out  and  fly 
up  on  that  clothes-line,  and  begin  losing!"  etc. 

But  Eose,  to-day,  was  to  see  more  substantial  things ;  for  it 
was  the  cheese-day,  and  Aunt  Eachel's  cheeses,  like  every  thing 
from  her  hands,  admitted  of  no  rivalry.  Already  the  curd  was 
formed ;  but  Eose  was  called  to  see  it  broken  up,  salted,  drained, 
and  pressed.  "With  wonder  she  inspected  the  cheese-room,  where 
some  two  score  cheeses,  of  various  ages,  lay  ranged  upon  the  suc- 
cessive shelves. 

"  These  are  old,"  said  Alice,  pointing  to  the  topmost  row ; 
"  these  are  going  to  market ;  and  these  are  not  cured  yet ;  we  have 
to  turn  and  rub  them  every  day." 

Which  operation  Eose  gravely  essayed  to  perform  under  Aunt 
Eachel's  direction. 

IsTothing  could  long  detain  the  children  from  the  only  city  of  a 
child's  desire — a  huge,  old-fashioned  barn !  There  is  something 
in  its  homely  simplicity,  in  its  negligence,  that  puts  them  at  ease. 
Ko  carpets  hold  them  in  caution ;  no  furniture  lords  it  over  the 
freedom  of  their  motions.  No  valetudinarians  or  nervous  people 
are  incommoded  by  their  noise.  It  is  a  very  castle  of  liberty  to 
them !  They  are  unwatched  and  untutored.  They  are  their  own 
masters.  Mice  squeak  and  quarrel  in  the  bins  and  barrels.  The 
old  cat  is  roused  by  the  symptoms,  and  lies  alert,  crouched,  or 
glides  eagerly  in  and  out  searching  for  her  prey.  Swallows  fly  in 
and  twitter  up  and  down  about  their  nests  plastered  under  the 
ridge-pole.  Flocks  of  hens  come  to  the  door,  look  in  first  with  one 
eye,  and  then  with  the  other, — each  one  calling  "  Cut-cut-cutarkut !" 
or  else  suppressing  in  her  throat  some  remark  not  prudent  to  utter ! 

To-day,  both  doors,  wide  and  high,  stood  wide  opeu,  leaving 
the  floor  clear  through  to  the  sunshine  and  fresh  air.  One  mow 
was  empty,  waiting  for  the  new  crop  of  hay  soon  to  be  cut.  The 
other  side  yet  held  many  tons,  and  famished  a  spot  for  jumping 
and  frolicking.  With  a  wild  outcry  a  hen  flies  off  her  nest.  One 
would  think  she  had  been  threatened,  attacked,  and  every  right 
rudely  invaded!  Instead  of  that  she  has  only  laid  an  ^^2,\  Many 
of  her  superiors  make  all  the  noise  without  an  ^g^,.  The  children 
run  for  it, — they  search  for  others, — and,  oh !  joy  of  excitements, 
find  a  new  nest,  with  ten  eggs  in  it !    They  bear  their  treasure  and 


Villaf/e  Life  in  New  J^ngland.  95 

triumpli  of  discovery  to  the  liouse  with  exultation.  They  race  back 
again  for  their  sport.  Their  bonnets  are  gone,  their  cheeks  are 
flushed, — every  thing  is  mirthful, — they  laugh  at  the  gate,  and 
laugh  at  the  hens,  and  laugh  at  Spark,  who  is  just  now  seized  with 
the  conviction  that  there  is  a  rat  somewhere,  and  who  is  running 
wildly,  all  a-tremble  with  excitement  and  fairly  screaming  with 
fury  at  the  dastardly  rat,  who  has  not  the  rat-hood  to  come  forth 
and  show  himself  openly,  but  meanly  takes  advantage  of  his  hole ! 

They  peer  into  the  root-cellar,  and  look  timid, — it  is  so  very 
dark,  and  a  foul,  damp  air  and  smell  of  old  roots  send  them  away. 
The  grain-room  is  more  attractive.  They  measure  oats,  and  climb 
up  on  the  slippery  ears  of  unshelled  corn,  which  slide  them  down 
as  fast  as  they  scramble  up.  They  get  into  the  buggy,  and  lay  the 
whip  upon  imaginary  horses,  and  jounce  up  and  down  upon  the 
springy  seats,  as  if  the  road  was  very  rough  or  the  speed  very 
great.  The  well,  too,  calls  them.  It  is  an  old-fashioned  well,  dug 
so  many  years  ago  that  every  body  has  forgotten  when.  It  is  very 
deep — they  peer  over,  and  look  down,  and  can  see  nothing ;  and 
that  is  always  very  terrible  when  one  is  looking  into  dai'kness ; 
and  both  run  away,  and  then  laugh  because  they  nm. 

It  is  noon.  Ah,  how  clear  the  sky !  How  sweet  the  air !  How 
full  of  clover  smell — great  red  clover,  which  spreads  out  just  be- 
low, whole  acres,  and  has  drawn  hither  bees  from  every  direction, 
and  made  them  greedy  with  delight !  And  now  the  horn  blows. 
It  is  dinner  time — twelve  o'clock.  "  There  is  father !  "  cries  Alice, 
and  runs  for  him,  and  Eose  hard  after,  and  both  get  kissed  for 
their  pains,  and  one  is  mounted  on  one  shoulder  and  one  on  the 
other — while  Barton  Cathcart,  in  tow  pantaloons,  barefoot,  tan- 
ned, all  but  his  eyes  and  hair,  which  are  black  as  night,  walks 
briskly,  to  let  the  girls  see  that  ten  years  old  can  keep  step  with 
full-grown  men.  And  Papa  Cathcart  must  wash  his  great  head 
and  tan-colored  neck  and  short  hair  all  over — and  Barton  Cath- 
cart must  wash  his  soiled  hands  and  tanned  face — and  Eose  and 
Alice  must  wash  their  red  faces  and  white  hands ! 

The  dinner  was  in  the  great  kitchen  to-day.  Xot  that  there 
was  not  a  dining-room,  which  served  also  for  the  sitting-room. 
But  now  was  the  busy  time,  and  the  old  kitchen  was  so  large  and 
pleasant,  and  it  was  so  much  easier  for  Mrs.  Cathcart  to  do  the 
work,  there  being  only  a  girl  to  help  her.      The  doors  stood  wida 


96  Norwood. 

open,  and  the  windo-ws  stood  wide  open,  and  before  long  moutha 
were  open  too.  The  potatoes  could  not  contain  themselves,  but 
in  the  goodness  of  their  hearts  had  split  open  with  benevolence, 
and  lay  in  the  dish  like  sacks  of  meal  ripped  open  and  spilling. 
The  meat  smeUed  so  good ! — even  the  dogs  could  not  wait.  Rex, 
with  the  most  beseeching  eagerness,  licked  his  chops,  and  Spark 
whined  and  trembled,  and  half-barked,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  can't 
stand  it  much  longer." 

They  all  ate — the  two  hired  men  ate,  and  the  man  that  hired 
them  ate,  and  the  boys  ate  and  the  girls,  and  even  the  dogs  ate, 
snapping  the  morsels  and  scraps  from  time  to  time  flung  to  them, 
and  swallowing  them  so  suddenly,  that  it  was  as  if  they  had  been 
flung  down  a  well. 

Where  was  Pete  ?  Gone  back  to  town  to  tell  the  Doctor  and 
Mrs.  "Wentworth  that  Rose  would  stay  all  night,  and  that  Pete 
was  to  come  back  with  some  fish-spears,  and  that  a  party  would 
be  formed  to  go  out  to  Broad  Brook  that  night  to  spear  suckers. 
Pete  mounted  the  colt, — a  horse  ten  years  old,  but  which  was  still 
called  the  colt.  The  "  young  horse  "  was  nearly  fifteen.  Indeed, 
the  team  horses  were  only  seven  and  eight  years  old,  and  the 
"  colt  "  and  "  young  horse  "  were  the  veterans.  On  his  bare  back 
Pete  sat  astraddle,  his  long  legs  nearly  sweeping  the  ground,  and 
both  horse  and  rider  being  of  one  mind,  the  journey  was  not 
long,  nor  was  the  return  so  delayed  but  that  Pete  arrived  in  ample 
time  to  secure  his  dinner. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE      NIGHT      FISHING. 

Long  had  Alice  been  promised  that  she  should  see  some  night 
fishing.  What  it  should  be,  filled  Rose  with  mysterious  imagina- 
tions. Hardy  and  tough  Barton,  who  that  afternoon  had  vacation 
in  honor  of  Miss  Rose,  being  three  years  her  senior,  felt  the  im- 
portance of  his  superior  age,  and  taught  and  dictated  in  the  most 
edifying  manner. 

The  spears  were  sharpened,  and  Pete  and  Barton  made  torches, 
tying  a  rude  tin  cup  to  a  short  stick  and  filling  it  with  turpentine 
and  oil.  A  loose  wick  was  provided,  wliich  was  capable  of  giving 
a  broad  glare  of  light. 

At  length  the  supper  was  over ;  the  two-horse  wagon  came 
round ;  the  girls  were  charged  with  extra  shawls  for  use  when  re- 
turning. The  light  along  the  West  was  yet  a  day  light,  but  was 
rapidly  fading.  Great  clouds  lay  banked  up  far  away  in  the 
south-west,  and  flashes  of  light  shooting  through  them  told  of 
distant  thunder-storms.  But  all  the  sky  hitherward  was  clear 
and  serene,  and  within  an  hour  the  moon  would  be  up. 

A  drive  of  a  mile  brought  the  party  to  Broad  Brook.  It  was 
one  of  those  rocky  and  gravelly  streams  found  in  mountain  re- 
gions, which  emigrants  settled  upon  the  flat  alluvial  lands  of  the 
West  long  for,  when  in  fevers  they  lie  half  asleep  and  half  awake, 
and  dream  that  they  are  back  again  at  home,  and  see  the  water 
clear  as  crystal  rushing  over  the  pebbles,  or  widening  into  sheets, 
and,  longing  for  its  coolness,  awake,  and  in  their  weakness  shed 
tears  for  very  home-sickness ! 

Broad  Brook  was  of  mountain  origin.  Into  it  came  Glover's 
Brook  from  the  ravine,  famous  for  its  wildness  and  its  trout,  and 
Twist's  River,  and  ever  so  many  more  mountain-fed  little  streams : 
so  that  by  the  time  it  had  come  down  to  Morse's  Bridge  it  had 
become  a  stream  of  some  dignity  and  power.  Had  its  waters  been 
compressed  into  narrow  bounds,  it  would  have  been  formidable 
for  any  one  who  should  seek  to  ford  it.  But  it  preferred  to  spread 
itself,  and  to  brawl  over  a  wide  bottom,  and  to  wind  along  the 


98  Norwood ;  or, 

edges  of  the  hills,  with  meadows  on  one  side  and  rocks  on  the  other, 
now  and  then  circuiting  off  far  into  the  grass-lands,  running  deep, 
with  many  a  pool.  Above  the  bridge,  for  the  most  part,  it  hugged 
the  hills,  and  was  broad  and  shallow,  better  fitted  for  wading. 

The  party  was  soon  upon  its  banks.  The  western  light  had 
grown  dim.  A  steep  bank  on  the  far  side  of  the  river,  clothed 
with  trees,  and  especially  held  by  the  solemn  black  hemlock, 
served  to  shut  out  the  little  remaining  twilight.  The  roar  of  the 
brook,  its  wild  and  threatening  look,  at  first  daunted  Rose  and 
Alice,  and  brought  them  close  to  each  other,  to  Barton's  great 
edification.  That  was  because  they  were  girls !  He  would  show 
them !  and  without  more  ado  he  jumped  into  the  water,  not  quite 
knee  deep,  and  walked  across  and  back,  and  let  the  water  bubble 
up  around  his  legs.  The  torches  were  soon  lit,  and  Pete  and 
Barton  took  each  a  spear,  and,  girding  a  bag  about  them  to  hold 
the  fish,  began  to  move  up  the  stream.  From  the  banks,  under 
'Biah  Carthcart's  care,  the  girls  watched  the  strange  and  wild 
scene.  The  smoky  torches  threw  a  red  glare  on  the  water,  whose 
wrinkled  face  gave  back  the  light  in  broken  fiashes.  The  bank 
obscurely  loomed  out  from  the  other  side,  jutting  forward,  seem- 
ingly, as  the  light  hazily  revealed  its  rocks,  and  drawing  back 
again  when  a  clump  of  hemlocks  or  mountain  laurels  opened  dark 
recesses  through  the  foliage.  Moving  slowly  against  the  rushing 
stream,  passing  the  light  along  its  surface,  and  surveying  its 
bottom,  Pete  and  Barton  for  a  time  seemed  to  find  nothing.  But 
as  they  neared  a  point  where  the  water,  swinging  around,  deepened 
a  little,  Barton  plunged  down  his  spear,  and,  with  some  commotion 
and  tussle,  held  it  there.  His  torch  had  almost  fallen.  Bat  re- 
gaining his  foothold,  he  soon  lifted  a  large  sucker  above  the  water, 
the  first  prize  of  the  evening.  Scarcely  was  his  trophy  secured 
before  Pete,  who  had  been  bending  and  searching  the  bottom,  was 
seen  aiming  his  spear,  and  with  sudden  stroke,  retracted  as  soon, 
lifted  a  fish  large  enough  to  make  the  ashen  spear-handle  bend. 

Growing  bolder  as  they  advanced.  Rose  and  Alice  imagined 
themselves  in  a  fairy  story.  Pete  and  Barton,  now  in  gloom  and 
now  shining  out  in  the  red  light  of  the  torches,  seemed  like 
gnomes.  The  trees,  as  the  torches  were  carried  under  them, 
were  lit  up  with  an  atmosphere  such  as  no  unenchanted  trees 
ever  knew.     The  water  seemed  to  be  some  living  thing,  and 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  99 

scowled  or  laughed,  winked  and  blinked,  as  if  it  knew  something 
wild  and  dreadful.  Xow  the  stream  left  the  hill,  and  moved  be- 
tween two  rows  of  stiff  alders,  and  the  fishers  were  lost  to  the 
sight,  only  a  faint  red  smoke  flickering  above  the  bushes,  revealing 
their  progress.  Then  winding  back  again,  the  stream  brawled 
against  the  rocks,  and  ran  for  a  long  wav  under  the  projecting 
branches  of  hard- wood  trees. 

And  now  the  girls,  growing  somewhat  bolder  and  more  familiar, 
wanted  to  go  into  the  brook.  Of  course  they  could  not.  But 
couldn't  somebody  let  them  ride?  How  could  'Biah  Cathcart 
carry  two  girls,  seven  years  old,  when  the  river  bottom  was  so 
uneven?  "What  if  his  foot  should  slip,  or  he  should  step  down  into 
a  hole — where  would  the  girls  be  ? 

But  couldn't  Pete  take  one,  and  the  father  take  the  other  ? 
Rose  could  ask  for  nothing  which  Pete  would  not  do.  He  wpuld 
have  laid  down  in  the  river,  or  in  a  mud-hole,  or  climbed  the 
steepest  rock,  or  jumped  the  most  dangerous  chasm,  if  Eose  told 
him  to.  And  when,  as  they  rounded  a  clump  of  bushes,  Pete 
came  near  the  bank.  Rose  said  to  him,  "  Pete,  mayn't  I  get  on 
your  shoulder  ? "  the  controversy  was  ended,  and  in  a  twinkling 
he  was  at  the  bank,  and  Rose  was  mounted ;  and  Alice,  not  a 
minute  after,  was  on  her  father's  shoulder  close  behind,  and  all 
were  in  the  foaming  stream.  And  now  I  defy  you,  O  painters, 
to  render  me  in  true  form  and  color  that  scene — the  wrinkle-faced 
river,  ruddy  and  changeful — the  overhanging  boughs,  up  into 
whose  obscure  depths  shoots  a  smoky,  tremulous  light — and  the 
strange  forms  of  men  moving  slowly  along  the  water,  bearing  two 
maidens  as  sweet  as  ever  dazzled  the  eyes  of  deluded  mortals ! 
Was  it  strange  that  Rose  seemed  to  herself  translated  from  the 
real  Avorld  into  one  of  dreams?  The  dizzy  gravel  at  the  bottom 
appeared  to  her  to  be  running  and  racing ;  the  water  seemed  like 
so  many  serpents  red  and  black,  wreathing  together  and  winding 
in  and  out  of  coils  that  were  endless  in  length  and  strange  in  their 
convolutions.  Never  had  she  seen  such  leaves  as  those  there 
above  her  head,  w^eird  with  light  shot  up  upon  them  from  beneath, 
and  over  all,  the  solemn  black  of  the  night  sky ! 

They  had  well  nigh  reache'd  the  upper  road  when  the  moon 
rose,  and  poured  its  light  full  upon  the  bridge  that  now  appeared 
not  far  ahead,  and  upon  a  party  that  sat  in  an  open  carriage  gazing 
down  upon  this  strange  procession. 


100  Norwood;  or, 

"  Mercy — ^look  down  into  that  river !     What  is  it,  Hiram  ? " 

"Wal,  as  near  as  I  can  see,  it's  a  nigger  sproutmg  and  bios- 
Boming  into  a  white  folk.  If  'Biah  Cathcart  warn't  a  sober  man, 
I  should  say  that  hindermost  one  was  he,  and  his  darter  on  his 
back.  And  if  that  one  ahead  ain't  Pete  and  the  Doctor's  Eose,  I'll 
never  kiss  my  wife  agin.  Scissors  and  pumpkins !  if  that  ain't  a 
spree !  and  here  it  is  after  nine  o'clock  at  night !  Hullo  there  ! 
Where's  Aunt  Eachel?  and  where's  the  rest  of  the  family?  Ain't 
there  any  more  comin'  ?  You  might  jest  as  well  have  finished  out 
the  frolic  and  brought  along  every  thing  you've  got,  as  to  have 
them  children  out  this  time  o'  night!" 

But  Hiram's  banter  had  no  effect  upon  the  party.  All  of  them 
were  keyed  up  too  high  with  the  sport.  Pete  gurgled  and  giggled ; 
'Biah  said  nothing,  but  smiled  contentedly ;  and  Barton  alone  had 
voice  to  shout,  till  the  woods  rung. 

"You'd  better  take  them  children  home,  unless  you  want  a 
bigger  river  on  the  top  of  'em  than  you've  got  under  'em !  "  said 
Hiram,  as  he  touched  his  ponies  and  started  away. 

Sure  enough !  The  sky  was  gathering  clouds.  Low  and  dis- 
tant thunder  was  heard.  They  must  hasten  back.  Blinded  and 
bewildered  by  the  unnatural  light  and  the  swirling  water,  'Biah 
and  Barton  would  have  followed  down  the  bank  but  for  Pete, 
whose  head  seemed  as  unaffected  by  the  scene  as  a  compass  is  by 
the  commotion  of  waters.  The  winding  of  the  river  had  given 
them  a  course  of  two  miles,  but  scarcely  half  a  mile  need  be  trav- 
ersed in  a  straight  line,  to  bring  them  to  the  wagon.  Following 
Pete,  they  soon  were  safely  seated,  and  the  horses,  impatient  and 
restive,  as  if  by  instinct  aware  that  a  storm  impended,  no  sooner 
had  their  heads  turned  homeward,  than  they  dashed  off  with  full 
course.  The  sparks  flew  from  under  their  feet.  They  grew  more 
eager  with  each  turn  of  the  road,  and  'Biah  soothed  and  restrained 
them  with  both  voice  and  rein.  It  seemed  to  the  girls  that  the 
whole  ride  was  like  an  arrow's  rush.  Bushes  darkly  loomed  and 
disappeared,  a  faint  glimmer  of  a  house  was  extinguished  in  a 
second  by  their  rapid  passing.  The  wind  was  swaying  the  trees 
and  rolling  up  the  damp  dust  of  the  road,  and  the  thunder  shook 
the  very  ground  as  it  fell  nearer  and  nearer.  They  were  not 
afraid.     They  secretly  gladdened  with  the  growing  turmoil. 

Aunt  Rachel  had  been  uneasy  ever  since  the  children  left, 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  loi 

Rex  Lad  been  kept  in  the  house  lest  his  freaks  should  disturb  the 
fishing.  At  every  sound  he  lifted  his  muzzle.  Often  he  went  to 
the  door,  and  smelt  and  •whined.  But  now  the  storm  was  coming 
on.  Aunt  Rachel's  fears  grew  painful.  Every  thunder-roll  in- 
creased her  alarm.  The  big  drops  were  beginning  to  smite  the 
panes  of  glass,  when  Rex  bounced  up  with  excitement,  and  gave 
a  roaring  bark  which  could  mean  nothing  but  their  arrival.  In 
good  time!  for,  just  as  the  party  tumbled  out,  and  the  girls- were 
borne  in,  the  torrent  descended;  and  when  the  light  from  the 
open  door  struck  out  into  the  air,  sheets  of  water  seemed  literally 
to  fulfil  Hiram's  hyperbole,  that  rivers  of  water  would  fill  the 
heavens. 

"Oh,  father,"  said  Rachel  Cathcart,  "it  is  wild  of  you  to  have 
these  children  out  on  such  a  night !     Come  in,  my  darlings." 

But  Rose  and  Alice  were  evidently  too  much  excited  and  happy 
to  need  pity. 

"  TThy,  Rachel,  do  you  suppose  people  catch  cold  when  they 
are  excited  like  these  children? " 

"  But  what  would  Doctor  Wentworth  say  ? " 

"  Say  ?  "Why  he  would  say  that  such  an  experience  was  better 
than  a  dozen  volumes  of  books — that  it  would  give  life  to  the 
imagination,  that  it  would  give  the  children  impressions  which 
would  enlarge  their  whole  after  life — that's  what  he  would  say ! 
and  if  he  had  been  along  himself,  he  would  have  enjoyed  it  better 
than  any  of  us.    Don't  you  think  so,  Rose  ? " 

Rose  sagely  assented. 

"  TVhy,  father,  you  seem  as  much  excited  as  the  children ! 

"Why  not?  I  hope  never  to  get  over  being  young.  I  look 
back  on  this  night  as  if  I  had  been  walking  in  a  cave  fuU  of 
crystals.  I  shall  never  forget  it,  and  I'll  warrant  the  children 
never  will.  Such  things  clean  off  the  drudgery  and  sameness  of 
life,  and  reach  toward  a  deeper  meaning.  At  any  rate,  that's  what 
the  doctor  '11  say,  to-morrow.    You  see  if  he  don't." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

__  LIGHTS     AND     SHADOWS. 

ArT"ER  a  day  of  so  much  excitement  the  t^vro  girls  "would  scarce- 
.y  be  held  from  sleep  by  the  violence  of  the  storm.  Only  at  one 
or  two  tremendous  peals  of  thunder  did  they  start  from  their 
slumber  and  listen  to  the  sweeping  wind,  which  rattled  every  win- 
dow, roared  in  the  chimneys,  and  sliook  the  whole  house.  Then 
suddenly  the  tumult  would  cease.  IsTot  a  drop  of  rain  would  fall. 
Not  a  leaf  seemed  to  move,  nor  a  puff  of  wind  to  blow.  Just  as 
suddenly  would  the  rain  again  pour  in  torrents,  only  abruptly  to 
cease,  as  if  a  valve  had  been  shut,  and  the  supply  instantly  cut 
off. 

iN'or  did  the  light  that  fell  upon  their  faces,  as  Aunt  Rachel 
came  for  her  last  care  before  retiring,  disturb  an  eyelid.  The  dark- 
ness and  the  light  are  alike  to  those  whom  God  translates  into  the 
mysterious  world  of  sleep.  Strange  world !  in  which  we  dwell  in 
unconsciousness  a  quarter  part  of  all  our  lives !  Is  four  score 
years  then  so  long,  that  from  it  must  be  subtracted  a  full  fourth 
part? 

To  one  of  Eachel's  peculiar  habits  of  mind  the  spectacle  of 
sleep  is  always  solemn  and  mysterious.  "Where  do  their  spirits 
wander  ?  Voyaging  along  the  dark  continent,  through  what  in- 
fluences do  they  glide  ?  What  guardian  spirits  convoy  them  ?  Or 
what  spiteful  sprites  would  annoy  them?  If  they  were  dead, 
would  they  not  lie  just  as  now  they  do  ?  Eachel  shuddered  as 
she  tucked  them  up  and  put  back  a  raven  lock  of  hau*  that  had 
escaped  from  Alice's  cap. 

Think  it  not  strange  that  a  farmer's  wife  should  deeply  ponder 
questions  which  have  tasked  the  deepest  thinkers.  Careful  think- 
ing may  demand  careful  culture.  But  it  is  nature  that  gives  the 
power  to  think,  and  it  is  conferred  on  many  who  never  train  their 
faculties  with  the  help  of  schools,  l^ow  and  then,  and  in  Xew 
England  often,  are  to  be  found  plain  and  •  uncultured  persons, 
whose  unconscious  thoughts  deal  habitually  with  the  profoundest 
questions  which  man  can  ponder.     The  very  intensity  of  religious 


Village  Life  m  Ncio  England.  103 

conviction — at  once  the  cause  of  so  much  that  is  good,  and  the 
occasion  of  so  much  ill  repute — tends,  at  length,  to  breed  among 
the  common  people  an  aptitude  for  deep  moral  problems. 

But  Eachel  never  sought  such  subjects.  They  came  to  her, 
and  came  largely,  through  her  feelings  and  her  imagination.  She 
TN'as  scarcely  conscious  of  her  own  agency  in  producing  the 
thoughts — half-sad  impressions  of  the  infinite — which  seemed  to 
overshadow  her.  She  was  scared  at  the  impressions  which  seemed 
to  fall  upon  her, — just  as  birds,  singing  in  a  thicket,  if  the  shadow 
of  a  hawk  sailing  in  the  air  pass  by,  hush  their  notes  and  nestle 
close.  Many  have  marvelled  at  the  mystery  of  human  life,  its 
irregularities,  its  inequalities,  its  incompleteness,  its  contradictory 
elements,  its  inequitableness.  These  were  not  Rachel's  peculiar 
thoughts.  Life  seemed  every  day  like  a  voyage  along  the  edge  of 
a  great  spirit  world,  out  of  which,  it  seemed  to  her,  presently 
would  come  some  infinite  truth,  some  revelation.  These  were  not 
tTioiights,  but  vague  feelings. 

!N'or  are  such  tendencies  uncommon  among  common  people. 
There  are  many  fine  natures  hidden  under  coarse  forms.  Powerful 
impressions  are  produced  on  many  who  cannot  resolve  them  into 
ideas,  and  still  less  fashion  them  to  words.  Along  the  furrow,  by 
the  work-bench,  in  the  chamber,  or  in  the  kitchen,  have  been 
thousands  silently  plying  the  unknown  with  as  solemn  an  earnest- 
ness as  that  of  those  who  write  books  to  prove  how  little  man  can 
know  of  the  Unknowable. 

Of  all  that  have  cast  line  or  net  into  that  sea,  whose  line  has 
straightened?  and  whose  net  has  been  broken  with  its  draught  of 
fishes?  '  • 

But  this  evening,  as  if  stirred  up  by  the  excitement  of  the 
night  and  the  storm,  Rachel  seemed  to  gaze  upon  Alice  as  one  who 
sends  a  child  afar  ofil  What  is  before  her  ?  Is  her  life  already 
rolled  up  within  her,  as  leaves  and  blossoms  are  in  buds  ?  Do 
men  come  into  life  mere  messengers  to  fulfil  decrees?  Is  this 
child  like  a  dyer's  thread,  whose  colors,  differently  measured  and 
laid  in,  shall  in  weaving  form  a  prearranged  figure  ?  And  what  is 
the  pattern?  "Who  knows?  And  what  will  be  the  weaving? 
Who  can  tell  ?  Can  any  one  hinder  it  ?  or  help  it  ?  Must  it  be  ? — 
is  it  decreed? — will  my  darling's  life  unfold  as  inevitably  as  a  rose 
pit  into  a  rose  bush  ?  an  apple  seed  into  an  apple  tree  ?    Must  I 


104  Norwood ;  or, 

let  her  go,  as  one  would  cut  loose  a  skiff,  and  let  it  drift  out 
into  the  wide  ocean?  It  may  founder  or  strand  upon  a  desolate 
island,  or  monsters  may  seize  it,  or  rough  men,  seeing  it  helpless 
on  the  sea,  snatch  up  its  little  vojager  into  some  ship  of  foreign 
tongue,  on  rude  and  dangerous  voyages!  Already  Hachel  felt 
that  Alice  was  gone  out  of  her  arms,  and  that  dull  aching  which 
came  from  the  soul's  deep  sense  of  pilgrimage — from  the  habit  of 
solitary  thought,  from  its  pining  after  truths  beyond  the  boundary 
lines — was  a  premonition  of  sorrow. 

Eachel  left  the  children  and  went  down  stairs.  The  storm 
was  sobbing  itself  to  rest.  The  thunder  grew  more  distant,  and 
the  rain  settled  down  to  a  steady  work  of  fine  and  constant  drops. 
Into  the  great  kitchen  she  went,  and  closing  the  doors,  ere  long 
she  was  bowed  in  prayer.  No  words  escaped  her.  Yet  tears  were 
there  many,  and  many  sighs.  But,  as  the  storm  had  spent  itself  out 
of  doors,  so  it  would  seem  as  if  this  pleading  face  to  face  with  God 
had  scattered  her  clouds,  and  if  she  did  not  arise  radiant,  she  at 
least  wore  a  face  solemn  with  the  peace  of  resignation.  If  one 
shall  ask,  was  there  need  of  such  trouble  ?  Not  to  him  that  ask- 
eth.  But  to  him  that  is  born  to  sing,  singing  is  a  necessity :  and 
to  him  that  is  born  to  sigh,  sighing  is  a  necessity.  Some  smUe 
easily,  and  some  are  just  as  easily  sad.  Some  think.  Some  feel. 
Each  has  his  mood. 

A  conscience  that  is  idealized,  that  clothes  the  minutest  shades 
of  life  with  transcendent  importance,  and  sees  refinements  in  duty 
far  beyond  common  eyes,  cannot  help  stamping  the  character  with 
a  peculiar  experience. 

The  broad  common  sense  of  her  husband  was  only  just  enough 
touched  with  the  imagination  to  give  richness,  and  plain  and 
practical  refinement.  But  he  was  not  wont  to  spend  thought 
either  upon  his  own  states  of  mind,'or  upon  the  subtile  questions 
which  dazzle,  or  darken,  natures  of  a  mystical  tendency.  He 
knew  all  the  doctrines  of  religion  as  she  did.  He  read  the  same 
books,  listened  to  the  same  sermons ;  but  the  result  in  each  was 
utterly  unlike.  There  was  not  simply  definiteness,  but  uniformity 
of  conception  in  his  mind.  Once  having  explored  a  doubt  and 
mastered  it,  it  never  rose  again.  Once  having  traced  the  proofs 
of  any  proposition  to  an  intellectual  conviction,  that  truth  stood 
forever  clear  and  firm. 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  105 

Kachel  lacked  that  philosophical  grip  which  holds  a  truth  to 
its  place,  and  compels  it  to  a  decent  and  conventional  behavior. 
Truths  came  and  went  above  her  head,  as  summer  clouds  do — 
casting  down  their  shifting  shadows  in  endless  variety  and  never 
twice  alike.  A  fear  which  was  mastered  yesterday  was  as  fresh 
to-day  as  the  new  wind  of  March,  which  blows  no  less  to-day 
because  it  was  spent  and  hushed  yesterday  evening. 

If  in  her  childhood  truth  had  risen  upon  her  mind  in  its  wider 
aspects,  and  the  infiniteness  of  divine  tenderness  had  fired  the 
imagination  and  toned  the  conscience,  it  is  not  easy  to  see  what 
measure  of  difterence  there  would  have  been  between  the  result 
and  that  which  actually  had  taken  place,  by  an  early  and  continue'd 
presentation  to  her  mind  of  sterner  views  of  divine  justice  and  of 
the  requisitions  of  divine  purity. 

"Winged  with  imagination  and  colored  with  fear  and  exquisite 
sensibility  of  conscience,  her  thoughts  ranged  those  vast  fields  of 
truth  so  familiar  to  i^ew-England  pulpits  ;  not  as  if  afii-ighted  with 
some  near  and  impending  terror,  but  as  sad  with  long-familiar 
truth,  whose  glory  and  beauty  cast  down  shadows  and  twilight 
upon  our  mortal  state,  and  stained  all  human  life. 

That  this  was  a  feeling  rather  than  a  conviction  made  it  the 
more  unmanageable.  That  it  dissolved  and  fled  away  often,  when 
sharply  pierced  with  a  clear  truth,  was  of  little  use  so  long  as  "  the 
clouds  returned  again  after  the  rain." 

It  should  not  be  thought  that  these  inward  experiences  pro- 
duced a  moping,  tear-sbedding  woman,  who  carried  her  shadow 
over  all  the  household.  Eachel  had  a  peculiar  charm  of  personal 
presence.  Her  sympathy  was  so  quick,  her  goodness  so  deep,  her 
intuitions  so  fine,  that  she  took  hold  upon  aU  who  came  near  her, 
and  evinced  a  singular  power  of  producing  happiness  in  them. 
Kothmg  of  her  own  moods  appeared  to  ordinary  observers  except 
a  fine  sadness,  which  passed  among  her  friends  not  apt  to  distin- 
guish closely  between  shades  of  feeling,  simply  as  tenderness.  It 
is  not  uncommon  for  such  natures  to  guard  their  inward  life  with 
a  jealous  shame,  as  if  it  would,  if  known,  lower  them  in  men's 
approbation.  And  sometimes,  too,  the  rebound  from  these  airy 
and  endless  musings  into  practical  kmdness  brings  grateful  relief. 
At  any  rate,  Eachel  was  known  neither  by  her  childi-en  nor  her 
friends  as  one  of  an  unhappy  experience,  but  as  one  of  the  few 


106  Norwood, 

that  were  far  more  than  they  seemed ;  whose  reserve  was  that  of 
inward  occupation  and  depth,  rather  than  of  timidity  or  of  pride. 

The  morning  came  to  the  happy  children.  Alice  was  to  return 
with  Rose,  and  spend  the  day  in  town,  and  Rose  was  to  show  and 
share  a  wealth  of  things  indoors  and  out,  which  seemed  to  Alice 
— whose  more  simple  and  retired  life  seldom  met  with  superfluities 
— a  fairy  world. 

Is  there  in  life  a  fairer  sight  than  two  maidens,  just  emerging 
from  childhood,  twined  together  in  love,  gentle,  strong,  sincere, 
and  full  of  fancies  ?  who  see  real  things  as  if  they  were  visions, 
and  imaginary  things  as  if  they  were  real?  whose  days  and  nights 
flow  musical  as  a  meadow  brook,  between  green  banks,  and  over 
a  bottom  rough,  just  enough  to  give  flash  and  ripple  to  the  sur- 
face ?  All  the  simplicity  of  childhood  is  yet  theirs,  while  dawning 
duties  and  social  proprieties  begin  to  jut  out  like  the  buds  in  early 
spring !  How  beautiful  the  contrast  between  Alice,  sensitive, 
reserved,  and  full  of  innate  dignity — whose  cheek  changed  color 
to  her  feelings,  shifting  almost  as  the  colors  flash  from  a  humming- 
bird's back  as  he  quivers  among  flowers, — and  Rose,  fair  skinned, 
of  a  brown  hair  that  might  be  called  suppressed  auburn, — free, 
frank,  strong  and  loving, — who  seemed  conscious  of  the  life  and 
meaning  of  every  living  thing  except  herself.  She  had  that  per- 
fect health  which  produces  unconsciousness  of  self.  Alice  accepted 
mirth  but  never  created  it.  Rose  sparkled  with  it.  Her  thoughts 
moved  in  a  brilliant  atmospbere.  In  certain  of  her  moods  events, 
people,  and  even  soulless  objects,  sparkled  with  gayety  and  humor. 
The  two  girls  might  be  called,  in  the  language  of  art,  Light  and 
Shadow. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

STOKIES   FOR  CHILDEEN. 

1p  a  day  in  a  country  farm-house  is  joyous  to  town-people,  not 
less  exhilarating  to  country  friends  is  a  day  in  a  town-mansion. 
Alice,  in  her  silent  and  gentle  way,  seemed  to  absorb  happineeg 
from  the  very  air.  That  sensitive  timidity,  which  was  like  an 
outer-garment  to  her  really  courageous  and  resolute  nature,  suf- 
fered no  embarrassment  in  Dr.  "Went worth's  family.  Agate  Bis- 
sell's  plain  speech  and  direct  manner  never  left  an  unfavorable  im- 
pression. There  was  a  flow  of  honesty  and  undisguised  kindness 
which  children  instinctively  recognized.  Her  whole  conduct  was 
indulgent,  though  her  language  seemed  monitorial  and  even  mag- 
isterial. 

!Mrs.  Wentworth  was  one  whose  soul  shone  through  her  face, 
and  gave  it  an  almost  transparent  look.  She  lived  under  the  in- 
fluence of  her  best  faculties, — therefore  her  manner  and  influence 
seemed  to  excite  the  best  faculties  of  those  who  met  her.  Very 
clear-headed  was  she,  very  cheerful,  and  very  kind.  Your  first 
glance  upon  her  face  would  lead  you  to  say.  Penetration  is  her 
ruliug  trait.  Youi-  second  glance  would  convince  you  that  Sym- 
pathy was  more  strongly  indicated.  If  she  spoke,  you  would  con- 
clude that  no  one  feeling  ruled,  but  many, — and  all  of  them  good. 
At  first,  you  would  think — this  woman  sees  through  all  films,  and 
cannot  be  deceived ;  next,  you  would  feel — there  is  no  need  of 
hiding  any  thing  from  her — she  is  to  be  trusted. 

As  for  Dr.  Wentworth — nobody  saw  through  him,  and  every 
body  trusted  him.  There  was  no  dormant  faculty  in  him — he  was 
alive  all  around  his  soul.  There  were  no  Arctic  and  Antarctic 
zones.  The  whole  globe  of  his  nature  was  tropical,  and  yet  tem- 
perate. 

His  moods  ran  through  the  whole  scale  of  faculties.  He  was 
various  as  the  separate  days.  He  carried  the  germs  of  every  thing 
which  bore  fruit  in  other  men's  characters,  and  so  could  put  him- 
self into  sympathy  with  every  kind  of  man.  A  great  talker  at 
times,   yet  even  when    most  frank,   he  was  more  silent  than 


108  Norwood ;  or, 

talkative,  and  left  the  impression  of  one  who  had  only  blown  the 
foam  off  from  unfathomable  thoughts. 

What  a  place  was  his  house  for  children!  An  old  mansion, 
quaint  and  voluminous,  stored  full  of  curious  knick-knacks,  more 
curious  books,  and  most  curious  engravings ;  yet  the  interior  of 
the  house  was  even  less  attractive  to  children  than  the  grounds 
about  it.  Such  dainty  nooks  there  were,  such  pet  mazes  among 
the  evergreens,  such  sweeps  of  flowers  and  tangles  of  blossoming 
vines,  such  rows  of  fruit-laden  trees,  such  discoveries  to  be  made, 
here  and  there,  of  new  garden  plats,  of  before  unseen  beds  of 
flowers,  such  wildernesses  of  morning-glories,  and  tangles  of  honey- 
suckles running  over  rocks,  or  matted  in  the  grass,  that  once  out, 
the  children  never  wanted  to  go  in,  and  once  in,  they  could  hardly 
persuade  themselves  to  go  out. 

"When  the  afternoon  was  turning  in  the  TVest,  and  the  sunlight 
began  to  shoot  golden  beams  under  the  branches  of  the  trees,  and 
the  shadows  stretched  themselves  every  moment  larger  and  larger 
along  the  ground,  as  if  the  time  were  near  for  them  to  fall  asleep, 
Dr.  Went  worth  came  in  from  his  patients  and  joined  the  children. 
Then  there  was  racing  and  frolicking !  Then  you  might  have  seen 
three  children  indeed ! 

But,  after  a  time,  Rose  began  to  persuade  her  father  to  tell 
some  stories.  Story-hunger  in  children  is  even  more  urgent  than 
bread-hunger.  And  so,  at  length,  he  suftered  himself  to  be  led 
captive  to  his  favorite  tree,  where  scores  of  times  he  had  been 
wont  to  weave  fables  and  parables  for  Rose ; — fictions  that  under 
every  form  whatsoever,  still  tended,  in  his  child's  imagination,  to 
bring  Nature  home  to  her  as  God's  wonderful  revelation,  vital  with 
sent:ment  and  divine  truth.  Sitting  upon  the  ground,  with  one 
child  on  either  side  leaning  upon  his  knees  and  looking  up  into 
his  face,  he  began : 

THE  ANXIOUS    LEAF. 

"  Once  upon  a  time  a  little  leaf  was  heard  to  sigh  and  cry,  as 
leaves  often  do  when  a  gentle  wind  is  about.  And  the  twig  said, 
'What  is  the  matter,  little  leaf? '  And  the  leaf  said,  '  The  wind 
just  told  me  that  one  day  it  would  pull  me  off  and  throw  me  down 
to  die  on  the  ground ! '  The  twig  told  it  to  the  branch  on  which 
it  grew,  and  the  branch  told  it  to  the  tree.     And  when  the  tree 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  io9 

heard  it,  it  rustled  all  over,  and  sent  back  word  to  the  leaf,  '  Do 
not  be  afraid ;  hold  on  tightly,  and  you  shall  not  go  till  you  want 
to.'  And  so  the  leaf  stopped  sighing,  but  went  on  nestling  and 
singing.  Every  time  the  tree  shook  itself  and  stirred  up  all  ita 
leaves,  the  branches  shook  themselves,  and  the  little  twig  shook 
itself,  and  the  little  leaf  danced  up  and  down  merrily,  as  if  noth- 
ing could  ever  pull  it  off.  And  so  it  grew  all  summer  long  till 
October.  And  when  the  bright  days  of  autumn  came,  the  little 
leaf  saw  all  the  leaves  around  becoming  very  beautiful.  Some 
were  yellow,  and  some  scarlet,  and  some  striped  with  both  colors. 
Then  it  asked  the  tree  what  it  meant  ?  And  the  tree  said,  '  All 
these  leaves  are  getting  ready  to  fly  away,  and  they  have  put  on 
these  beautiful  colors,  because  of  joy.'  Then  the  little  leaf  began 
to  want  to  go,  and  grew  very  beautiful  in  thinking  of  it,  and  when 
it  was  very  gay  in  color,  it  saw  that  the  branches  of  the  tree  had 
no  color  in  them,  and  so  the  leaf  said,  '  Oh,  branches !  why  are 
you  lead  color  and  we  golden?'  'TVe  must  keep  on  our  work 
clothes,  for  our  life  is  not  done  ;  but  your  clothes  are  for  holiday, 
because  your  tasks  are  over.'  Just  then,  a  little  puff  of  wind  came, 
and  the  leaf  let  go  without  thinking  of  it.  and  the  wind  took  it 
up,  and  turned  it  over  and  over,  and  whirled  it  like  a  spark  of  fire 
in  the  air  and  then  it  fell  gently  down  under  the  edge  of  the  fence 
among  hundreds  of  leaves,  and  fell  into  a  dream  and  never  waked 
up  to  tell  what  it  dreamed  about !  " 

How  charming  it  is  to  narrate  fables  to  children !  How  daintily 
do  they  carry  on  the  conscious  dramatic  deception !  They  know 
that  if  the  question  were  once  got  in  upon  them,  "  Are  these 
things  truel "  the  bubble  would  burst,  and  all  its  fine  colors  would 
disappear.  Children  are  unconscious  philosophers.  They  refuse  to 
pull  to  pieces  their  enjoyments  to  see  what  they  are  made  of! 
Rose  knew  as  well  as  her  father  that  leaves  never  talked.  Yet, 
Rose  never  saw  a  leaf  without  feeling  that  there  was  life  and 
meaning  in  it.  Flowers  had  stories  in  them.  The  natural  world 
stole  in  upon  her  with  mute  messages,  and  the  feelings  which  woke 
in  her  bosom  she  attributed  to  nature,  and  the  thoughts  which 
started  she  deemed  a  revelation  and  an  interpretation  of  truths 
that  lay  hidden  in  creation  waiting  for  her ! 

"Wiiat  is  one  story  ?     A  mere  provocation  of  another. 

"  Do  tell  us  another,  father.     That  was  bo  short." 


110  Norwood;  or, 

"Yes,  Doctor — do  tell  us  some  more,"  said  Alice,  and  then, 
coloring  a  little,  she  said — "  Rose  can  have  them  every  day,  but  I 
cannot,  — only  once  in  a  great  while." 

"  Alice,  you  must  make  your  father  tell  you  stories." 

"  He  does,  sometimes,  hut  they  are  always  out  of  books, 
and  almost  always  Bible  stories,  and  I  know  them  by  lieart 
already." 

After  Dr.  Wentworth  had  regaled  himself  enough  with  the 
children's  charming  arts  of  coaxing,  he  began  another  story: 

THE  FAIRY  FLOWER. 

"  Once  there  was  a  little  girl  whose  name  was  Clara.  She  had 
a  very  kind  heart,  but  she  was  an  only  child  and  had  been  petted 
so  much  that  she  was  like  to  become  very  selfish.  Too  late  her 
mother  lamented  that  she  had  indulged  her  so  much,  and  strove  to 
repair  the  mischief,  and  to  make  Clara  think  of  other  people's  hap- 
piness, and  not  solely  of  her  own.  On  some  days  nothing  could 
be  more  charming  than  Clara's  ways.  She  was  gentle  and  obhg- 
ing,  and  sang  all  day  long,  and  made  every  one  who  came  near  her 
happy  by  her  agreeable  manners.  Then  every  body  admired  her 
and  her  mother  and  aunt  were  sure  that  she  was  cured  of  her  pet 
tish  dispositions.  But,  the  very  next  day,  all  her  charming  way.' 
were  exchanged.  She  carried  a  moody  face.  She  was  no  longer 
courteous,  and  every  one  who  came  near  her  felt  the  chill  of  her 
manner,  as  if  an  east  wind  were  blowing  with  her  breath.  One 
summer  night,  after  such  a  miserable  day,  Clara  went  to  her  room. 
The  moon  was  at  its  full,  and  poured  through  the  window  in  such 
floods  that  she  needed  no  other  light.  Clara  sat  down  by  the  win- 
dow very  unhappy.  She  thought  over  the  day,  and  wondered  at 
herself,  and  tried  to  imagine  why  it  was  that  on  some  days  she 
was  so  happy  and  on  others  so  wretched.  As  she  mused  she  laid 
her  head  back  on  the  easy  chair.  No  sooner  had  she  shut  her 
eyes,  than  a  strange  thing  happened.  An  old  man,  very  feeble, 
came  in,  and  in  his  basket,  which  he  seemed  hardly  able  to  bear, 
was  a  handful  of  flowers  and  two  great  stones.  He  came  to  Clara 
and  said,  '  !M!y  daughter,  will  you  help  me,  for  I  am  too  old  to  carry 
this  load;  please  make  it  lighter?'  Then  Clara  looked  at  him 
■with  pouting,  and  said,  '  Go  away ! '  Then  he  said,  '  I  am  poor 
and  suffering.    Will  you  not  Kghten  my  load  ? '    Then  Clara  con- 


Villa (/e  Life  in  New  England.  \\\ 

descended  to  take  the  flowers  out  of  his  basket.  They  were  very 
beautiful,  and  she  laid  them  in  her  lap. 

"  The  old  man  said  : 

"  '  My  daughter,  you  have  not  lightened  my  basket — you  have 
only  taken  the  pleasant  things  out  of  it,  and  left  the  heavy,  heavy 
stones.     Oh,  please  lift  one  of  them  out  of  the  basket ! ' 

"  Then  Clara  was  angry,  and  said  : 

"  '  ^N"©,  get  you  gone — I  will  not  touch  those  dirty  stones.' 

"  No  sooner  had  she  said  this,  than  the  old  man  began  to  change 
before  her,  and  became  so  bright  and  white,  that  he  looked  like  a 
column  of  crystal.  Then  he  took  one  of  the  stones  and  cast  it  out 
of  the  window  and  it  flew  and  flew  and  flew,  and  fell  down  on  the 
eastern  side  of  a  grove,  where  the  sun  shone  first  every  morning — 
and  close  by  it  ran  a  brook  that  laughed  and  loitered  and  sported 
all  day  and  all  night,  and  ployed  with  every  thing  that  would  come 
to  it. 

"  And  then  the  crystal  old  man  took  the  flowers  out  of  her  lap, 
and  they  were  wet  with  moisture,  and  he  shook  them  ov^er  her 
head,  and  said : 

"  '  Change  to  a  flower !  Go  and  stand  by  the  stone,  till  your 
shadow  shall  be  marked  upon  the  rock.' 

"  In  a  second,  Clara  was  growing  by  the  side  of  a  wide  flat  stone, 
and  the  moon  cast  the  shadow  of  a  beautiful  flower,  with  long  and 
slender  stem,  upon  the  rock.  She  was  very  wretched,  and  the  dew 
came  and  comforted  her,  and  in  the  morning  she  could  not  help 
looking  at  herself  in  the  brook,  that  came  close  up  to  the  stone, 
and  she  saw  how  beautiful  she  was.  All  day  her  shadow  fell  on 
the  rock,  and  when  the  sun  went  away  the  shadow  went  away  too. 
All  night  she  threw  a  pale  shadow  on  the  rock,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing, when  the  moon  went  away,  the  shadow  went  away  too.  And 
the  rock  lay  still,  all  day  and  all  night,  and  did  not  care  for  the 
flower,  nor  feel  its  shadow.  And  she  longed,  and  longed,  and 
longed ;  but  what  could  a  tender  flower  do  with  a  hard  rock?  And 
the  flower  asked  the  brook,  '  Can  you  help  me  ? '  And  the  brook 
laughed  out  louder  than  it  was  laughing  before,  and  said,  '  Ask  the 
^irds.'  And  so  she  asked  a  Bobolink,  and  he  came  frisking  to  her, 
TFith  {^  wonderful  speech,  in  Latin,  Greek  and  Syriac,  with  some 
^ords  from  the  great  language  that  was  before  all  other  languages. 
And  he  alit  upon  the  flower,  and  teetered  up  and  down,  till  she 
6 


112  Norwood ;  or, 

thought  her  back  would  break ;  but  nothing  could  she  learn  how 
to  make  her  shadow  stay  upon  the  rock. 

"  Then  she  asked  a  spider ;  and  he  spun  a  web  from  her  bright 
blossoms,  and  fastened  it  to  the  rock,  and  bent  her  over,  and 
tied  her  up,  till  she  feared  she  should  never  get  loose.  But  all  his 
nice  films  did  her  no  good,  and  her  shadow  would  not  stay  upon 
the  rock. 

"  Then  she  asked  the  wind  to  help  her,  and  the  wind  blew  away 
the  spider's  web,  and  blew  so  hard  that  the  flower  lay  its  whole 
length  upon  the  rock,  but  when  the  wind  left  her  and  she  rose  up, 
there  was  no  shadow  there  ! 

"  And  she  said—'  What  is  beauty  worth,  if  it  grows  by  the  side 
of  a  stone  that  does  not  feel  it,  nor  care  for  it  ? ' 

"  Then  she  asked  the  dew  to  help  h(Jr.  And  the  dew  said, 
*  How  can  I  help  you  ?  I  live  contentedly  in  darkness.  I  put  on 
my  beauty  only  to  please  other  things.  I  let  the  sun  come  through 
my  drops,  though  I  know  it  will  consume  me.' 

"  The  flower  said,  '  I  wish  I  were  dew.  I  would  do  some  good. 
Now  my  beauty  does  me  no  good,  and  I  am  wasting  it  every  day 
upon  a  rock.'  "When  the  flower  breathed  this  benevolent  wish, 
there  were  flutters  and  whispers  all  around,  but  the  flower  thought 
it  was  only  the  brook. 

"  The  next  day  came  that  way  a  beautiful  girl.  She  was  gather- 
ing ferns,  ancl  mosses,  and  flowers.  "Whenever  she  saw  a  tuft  of 
moss  she  said,  '  Please,  dear  moss,  may  I  take  you  ? '  And  when 
she  saw  a  beautiful  branch  with  scarlet  leaves,  she  said,  '  Dear  bush, 
may  I  take  these  leaves? '  And  then  she  saw  a  beautiful  Colum- 
bine growing  by  the  edge  of  a  rock,  and  she  said,  '  Oh,  sweet 
Columbine,  may  I  pluck  you?'  And  the  flower  said,  'Please,  I 
must  not  go  till  my  shadow  is  fastened  on  the  rock.'  Then  the 
young  lady  took  from  her  case  a  pencil  and  in  a  moment  traced  the 
shadow  of  the  Columbine  upon  the  rock,  and  when  she  had  done 
she  reached  her  hand  and  took  the  stem  low  down  and  broke  it 
oflu  Then  Clara  sprang  up  from  her  chair  by  the  window,  and 
thei*e  stood  her  mother,  saying : 

"  '  My  dear  daughter,  you  should  not  fall  asleep  by  an  open 
window,  not  even  in  summer,  my  child.  How  damp  you  arel 
Come,  hasten  to  bed.' 

"  It  was  many  days  before  Clara  could  persuade  herself  that 


Village  Life  in  Neiv  England.  113 

slie  bad  ouly  dreamed.  It  was  many  months  before  she  told  tbe 
dream  to  her  motber.     And  wben  she  did,  ber  mother  said: 

"  '  Ah,  Clara,  would  that  all  girls  might  dream,  if  only  it  made 
them  as  good  as  your  dream  has  made  you.'  " 

Tbe  doctor  seemed  quite  interested  in  his  own  story,  and  sat 
silent  for  a  moment,  that  the  good  impression  might  settle  in  the 
girls'  minds.  He  was  awakened  to  attention  by  some  little  llutter, 
and  saw  Eose  nodding  in  a  gravely  humorous  way  to  Alice,  as  if 
she  meant  to  say  : 

"  I  hope,  Alice,  that  you  will  take  this  lesson  to  heart,  and 
never  be  naughty  again  !  " 

"Ah,  rogue  Eose!"  said  the  doctor.  "Is  that  the  way  you 
pay  me  for  my  trouble  ?     You  shall " 

Eose,  without  waiting  for  the  whole  sentence,  darted  off,  and 
in  an  instant  tbe  doctor  was  in  full  chase,  while  Alice,  hesitant, 
followed  in  tbe  distance,  half  laughing,  and  quite  uneasy  lest 
some  harm  should  come  to  Eose.  Harm  did  come.  She  was, 
after  nimble  turns  and  skilful  evasions,  so  amused  at  her  father's 
mishap  in  rushing  upon  a  sweet-brier,  wben  he  thought  to  have 
seized  her,  that  her  strength  dissolved  in  laughter.  She  was 
caught,  and  her  hands  tied  with  honeysuckle  vines,  and  her  neck 
was  bound  with  flowers,  and  so  she  was  carried  away  captive, 
smothered  with  sweets,  to  be  punished  under  the  great  tree. 
There  her  father  pronounced  the  sentence,  that  for  irreverence 
and  rebellion,  she  should  be  doomed  to  hear  another  story,  which 
he  called 

COMING  AIO)  GOING. 

"  Once  came  to  our  fields  a  pair  of  birds  that  had  never 
built  a  nest  nor  seen  a  winter.  Oh,  how  beautiful  was  every 
thing!  Tbe  fields  were  full  of  flowers,  and  the  grass  was  grow- 
ing tall,  and  the  bees  were  humming  everywhere.  Then  one  of 
the  birds  fell  to  singing,  and  tbe  other  bird  said  :  '  "Who  told 
you  to  sing? '  and  he  answered:  'The  flowers  told  me,  and  the 
bees  told  me,  and  tbe  winds  and  leaves  told  me,  and  tbe  blue 
sky  told  me,  and  you  told  me  to  sing.'  Then  his  mate  answered : 
'  When  did  I  tell  you  to  sing  ? '  And  he  said :  '  Every  time 
you  brought  in  tender  grass  for  tha  nest,  and  every  time  your  soft 
wings  fluttered  off  again  for  hair  and  feathers  to  line  the  nest.' 
Tben  his  mate  said:  *What  are  von  singing  about?'    And   hf 


114  Norwood;  or, 

answered :  '  I  am  singing  about  every  thing  and  nothing.    It  ia 
because  I  am  so  happy  that  I  sing.' 

"  By-and-by  five  little  speckled  eggs  were  in  the  nest,  and  his 
mate  said  :  "Is  there  any  thing  in  all  the  world  as  pretty  as  my 
eggs  ?  "  Then  they  both  looked  down  on  some  people  that  were 
passing  by,  and  pitied  them  because  they  were  not  birds,  and  had 
no  nests  with  eggs  in  them  !  Then  the  father-bird  sung  a  melan- 
choly song  because  he  pitied  folks  that  had  no  nests,  but  had  to 
live  in  houses. 

"  In  a  week  or  two,  one  day,  when  the  father-bird  came  home, 
the  mother-bird  said:  'Oh,  what  do  you  think  has  happened?' 
'What?'  'One  of  my  eggs  has  been  peeping  and  moving!' 
Pretty  soon  another  egg  moved  under  her  feathers,  and  then 
another,  and  another,  till  five  little  birds  were  born ! 

'•Now  the  father-bird  sung  longer  and  louder  than  ever.  The 
mother-bird,  too,  wanted  to  sing,  but  she  had  no  time,  and  so  she 
turned  her  song  into  work.  So  hungry  were  these  little  birds, 
that  it  kept  both  parents  busy  feeding  them.  Away  each  one 
flew.  The  moment  the  little  birds  heard  their  wings  fluttering 
again  among  the  leaves,  five  yellow  mouths  flew  open  so  wide, 
that  nothing  could  be  seen  but  five  yellow  mouths ! 

"  '  Can  any  body  be  happier  ? '  said  the  father-bird  to  the  mother- 
bird.  '  "We  will  live  in  this  tree  always,  for  there  is  no  sorrow 
here.     It  is  a  tree  that  always  bears  joy.' 

"  The  very  next  day  one  of  the  birds  dropped  out  of  the  nest, 
and  a  cat  ate  it  up  in  a  minute,  and  only  four  remained ;  and  the 
parent-birds  were  very  sad,  and  there  was  no  song  all  that  day  nor 
the  next.  Soon  the  little  birds  were  big  enough  to  fly,  and  great 
was  their  parents'  joy  to  see  them  leave  the  nest  and  sit  crumpled 
up  upon  the  branches.  There  was  then  a  great  time  !  One  would 
have  thought  the  two  old  birds  were  two  French  dancing-masters, 
—talking  and  chattering,  and  scolding  the  little  birds,  to  make 
them  go  alone.  The  first  bird  that  tried  flew  from  one  branch 
to  another,  and  the  parents  praised  him,  and  the  other  little  birds 
wondered  how  he  did  it!  And  he  was  so  vain  of  it  that  he  tried 
agafn,  and  flew  and  flew,  and  couldn't  stop  flying,  till  he  fell  plump 
down  by  the  house-door;  and  then  a  little  boy  caught  him  and 
carried  him  into  the  house, — and  only  three  birds  were  left.  Then 
the  old  birds  thought  that  the  sun  was  not  bright  as  it  used  to  be, 
and  they  did  not  sing  as  often. 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  115 

"  In  a  little  time  the  other  birds  had  learned  to  use  their  wings, 
and  they  flew  away  and  away,  and  found  their  own  food  and  made 
their  own  beds,  and  their  parents  never  saw  them  any  more! 

*'  Then  the  old  birds  sat  silent,  and  looked  at  each  other  a  long 
while. 

"  At  last,  the  wife-bird  said: 

"  '  Why  don't  you  sing  ? ' 

"  And  he  answered : 

"  '  I  can't  sing — I  can  only  think  and  think !  ' 

" '  What  are  you  thinking  of  ? ' 

"  *  I  am  thinking  how  every  thing  changes, — the  leaves  are 
falling  down  from  oflf  this  tree,  and  soon  there  will  be  no  roof 
over  our  heads ;  the  flowers  are  all  gone,  or  going ;  last  night 
there  was  a  frost ;  almost  all  the  birds  are  flown  away,  and  I  am 
very  uneasy.  Something  calls  me,  and  I  feel  restless  as  if  I  would 
fly  far  away." 

"  '  Let  us  fly  away  together ! ' 

"Then  they  rose  silently,  and,  liftiug  themselves  far  up  in 
the  air,  they  looked  to  the  north, — far  away  they  saw  the  snow 
coming.  They  looked  to  the  south, — there  they  saw  green  leaves ! 
All  day  they  flew,  and  all  night  they  flew  and  flew,  till  they  found 
a  land  where  there  was  no  winter — where  there  was  summer 
all  the  time ;  where  flowers  always  blossom,  and  birds  always 
sing. 

"  But  the  birds  that  stayed  behind  found  the  days  shorter,  the 
nights  longer,  and  the  weather  colder.  Many  of  them  died  of 
cold ;  others  crept  into  crevices  and  holes,  and  lay  torpid.  Then 
it  was  plain  that  it  was  better  to  go  than  to  stay !  " 


Rose  was  going  on  seven  years  old.  Never  did  girl  give  less 
cause  of  anxiety.  Never  did  girl  excite  more  anxiety  in  a  mother's 
heart  than  did  Rose  in  Agate  BisseU's.  Why  should  it  be  ?  Was 
not  Rose  healthy  ?  Was  she  not  of  fine  disposition  ?  Of  good 
parentage,  with  careful  training,  with  every  advantage  that  wealth 
could  procure,  what  possible  reason  had  Agate  for  her  seriousness 
and  anxieties? 

There  are  many  people  who  seem  to  regard  anxiety  as  a 
religious  duty.  They  seem  to  think  that  no  state  of  mind  is  sub- 
Btantial  which  is  not  ballasted  with  cares. 


116  Norwood ;  or. 

If  Agate  Bissell  expected  to  pass  her  life  in  Dr.  "VTentwortb's 
family,  to  be  Mrs.  Wentworth's  confidential  companion,  and  to 
divide  with  her  the  care  of  the  household,  and  to  bestow  every 
faculty  of  mind,  soul  and  body  on  the  children, — for  Rose  was  not 
a  solitaiy  flower,  but  only  the  first  bud  that  blossomed, — why 
should  she  iwt  be  anxious,  and  inflict  upon  herself  all  that  unne- 
cessary pain  that  is  usually  deemed  proper  by  painstaking  people  ? 
"Why  should  she  not  imagine  evils  that  never  will  happen,  and 
reflect  with  self-reproach  upon  things  done  that  might  have  been 
better  done?  "Why  not  be  discouraged,  and  imagine  that  the 
doctor  would  certainly  spoil  the  children  ?  or  that  some  nameless 
and  unknown  evil  wo\ild  yet  spring  up  and  devour  them  ?  "What 
do  angels  do  with  unnecessary  anxieties?  "What  clouds  of 
needless  prayers  are  daily  floated  upward  which  never  distil  in 
rain! 

But  it  is  not  just  to  imagine  that  Agate  had  no  other  reason 
for  seriousness  of  mind  than  this  vague  anxiety.  She  was  a  Chris- 
tian not  only  in  disposition,  bnt  she  firmly  believed  the  Christian 
teachings  of  Dr.  Buell.  Until  Eose  was  converted  there  were  no 
right  aflfections  in  her.  She  had  been  taught  that  natural  excel- 
lences, amiable  dispositions,  in  unregenerate  people,  have  no  moral 
excellence,  and  do  not  diminish  that  perpetual  danger  which  over- 
hangs every  child  of  Adam  until  he  becomes  a  Christian.  Many 
hold  these  views,  but  few  lelieve  them.  Agate  was  among  the 
few  that  believed.  "What  to  her  was  the  body,  its  health  and 
happiness,  compared  with  the  soul  ?  "What  was  it  to  her  that 
Rose  was  lovely,  docile,  and  obedient,  if  in  her  heart,  concealed 
yet,  but  sure  to  be  disclosed,  there  was  that  fatal  taint,  left  on  all 
the  first  parents'  posterity? — that  latent  enmity  which  one  day 
would  flame  out  against  her  Maker  ? 

This  it  was  that  made  Rose  a  perpetual  burden  to  Agate  Bis- 
sell, and  that  had  often  wet  her  pillow  with  tears  aiid  drawn  out 
prayers  without  number. 

"  Rose,  my  dear  child,  what  good  can  it  do  you  to  love  all  tho 
world  that  God  has  made,  its  clouds  and  seasons,  its  forests  and 
fields,  if  you  do  not  love  God  who  made  them  all  ?  " 

Rose  looked  Agate  full  in  the  face,  but  sat  silently. 

"You  know,  my  child,"  said  Agate,  "that  to  make  much  of 
the  world,  and  nothing  of  God  who  made  it,  is  idolatry.     Your 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  117 

soul  cannot  be  saved,  Rose,  by  the  clouds,  or  by  the  mountains. 
If  you  could  find  your  Saviour  in  nature " 

Agate  paused,  for  Rose  walked  to  her  side,  and  placing  her 
arms  around  her  neck,  said  : 

"  Agate,  I  do  love  the  Saviour.  I  think  of  him  every  day,  and 
ask  him  to  love  me.  Father  says  that  there  is  nothing  made  that 
Jesus  did  not  make." 

A  new  anxiety  now  took  possession  of  Agate.  Might  it  not  be 
true  that  this  child  had  been  blessed  ?  If  so,  then  she  was  guilty 
of  that  ofi^ending  one  of  those  little  ones,  against  which  such 
solemn  words  were  pronounced.  On  the  other  hand,  might  not 
this  young  creature,  so  beautiful,  so  engaging,  be  snared  and 
deceived  ?  "Was  she  not,  by  her  fathers  influence,  liable  to  sub- 
stitute a  diluted  scntimentalism  for  the  sober  realities  of  a  true 
religious  experience? 

Agate  had  often  talked  with  Mrs.  Wentworth  on  this  subject ; 
but  she  was  so  much  in  sympathy  with  her  husband's  opinions, 
tliat  Agate  doubted  whether  her  judgment  was  clear  and  un- 
biassed. 

It  is  not  strange,  then,  that  Agate  in  a  manner  sounded  Mrs. 
Polly  Marble  on  this  general  subject. 

"Mrs.  Marble,  do  you  think  that  people  can  be  converted 
without  knowing  the  time  ?  " 

"  Well,  Agate,  when  tjie  Lord  delivered  my  soul  it  was  just  as 
if  I  had  been  sittin'  in  a  dark  room  and  somebody  had  opened  the 
door  right  against  the  sun.  Not  know  the  time?  I  shall  never 
forgit  it,  I  guess !  I  know  there's  some  folks  think  different. 
Them  Episcopal  folks  say  that  children  git  good  gradually.  But  I 
say  that  if  a  man  don't  know  the  times  and  seasons  of  his  own 
heart,  he  likely  hasn't  had  much  religion  anyhow." 

"  But  do  you  suppose  a  work  of  grace  can  exist  in  the  soul, 
and  tlie  person  not  know  that  it  is  grace  ?  " 

"I  tell  you  what.  Agate,  if  it's  the  Lord  that  converts  men,  I 
guess  they'll  know  it,  and  other  folks  will  be  apt  to  know  it  too! 
Men  are  naturally  like  bags  full  of  weed-seeds.  The  Lord  first 
shakes  'em  empty,  and  then  fills  'em  up  with  precious  wlieat. 
Now  it  stands  to  reason  that  if  the  Lord  is  shakin'  a  man  inside 
out  he'll  know  it." 

"  But,  Mrs.  Marble,  may  not  the  Lord  in  his  Sovereignty  deal 


118  Norwood;  or, 

gently  with  young  people  ?  Is  not  that  the  meaning  of  the  Scrip- 
ture, '  He  shall  carry  the  young  in  His  arms  ? '  " 

"  Agate,  I  al\rays  say  that  it's  best  to  be  on  the  sure  side.  It 
never  does  harm  to  find  fault  with  your  evidences,  'cause  if  they 
are  real  you  won't  hurt  'em,  and  if  they  are  deceivin'  you,  you 
will  be  apt  to  find  it  out.  People  now-a-days  git  religion  too 
easy.  I  was  under  conviction  nigh  about  two  months.  I  was 
awfully  striven  with  afore  I  give  up.  Young  people  now  seem  to 
git  along  too  easy,  I  say.  They  don't  bear  any  yoke,  nor  carry 
much  of  a  cross.  I  have  seen  folks  have  measles  light,  and 
scarlet-fever  so  easy  they  didn't  hardly  know  it.  But  I  shall 
never  be  made  to  believe  that  any  body  took  religion  so  easy  that 
they  didn't  know  they  had  it." 

"  Don't  you  sometimes  doubt  the  promises,"  said  Agate,  "  when 
you  see  how  children  turn  out  that's  well  brought  up  ?  Some 
folks  neglect  their  children,  let  them  do  pretty  much  as  they 
please,  and  yet  they  grow  straight  up,  are  converted,  come  into 
the  church,  and  do  well  all  their  lives^;  then  again,  others  are 
taught  and  governed,  and  restrained,  and  watched  in  every  par- 
ticular, and  yet  the  moment  they  get  free  they  go  out  into  the 
world  and  grow  as  wicked  as  if  nothing  had  been  done  for  them. 
I  don't  know — it's  a  mystery  to  me  !  " 

"A  mystery!  "  said  Aunt  Polly  Marble,  pushing  her  spectacles 
a  little  closer  to  her  eyes,  and  looking  tln-ough  them  with  a  doubly 
earnest  look,.  "  there  is  no  mystery  about  it.  It's  all  election. 
That  does  it!" 

Agate  seemed  troubled  in  countenance,  and  said : 

"  I  wish  I  knew  more  about  that  doctrine.  If  one  only  knew 
who  was  elected,  we  could  feel  easy.  And  if  a  man  was  not 
elected,  there  would  be  no  need  of  spending  much  time  on  him. 
"Working  for  men  that  are  not  among  the  elect  is  like  sewing  with- 
out any  thread  in  your  needle ;  a  good  deal  of  work,  and  nothing 
to  show  for  it." 

"  It's  a  precious  doctrine  though,  even  if  you  don't  understand 
it.  You  may  not  know,  but  the  Lord  does,  and  it  doesn't  become 
us  to  be  too  pryin'.  " 

"Yet,  I  think  a  mother  might  be  excused  for  being  anxious 
about  her  own  children.  If  any  body  ever  did  offer  a  child  up  to 
God,  I  have  that  child !  If  she  was  my  own  flesh  and  blood,  J 
could  not  do  more  for  Rose !  " 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  119 

"  Don't  you  think  her  father  might  do  a  little  more  to  help  out? 
He  may  be  pious — I  wouldn't  judge.  But  he  seems  to  me  to  walk 
in  a  pretty  broad  path,  and  to  find  a  good  many  notions  not  likely 
to  grow  in  the  narrow  way." 

"  He  has  his  own  views,  and  thinks  he's  right.  He  reads  the 
Bible  a  good  deal,  and  wants  Kose  to.  But  he's  got  so  many  things 
in  his  head  that  you  can't  find  in  the  Bible,  that  I  don't  know 
what'll  become  of  Kose.  I'm  afraid  her  soul  will  be  snared  with 
worldly  knowledge." 

"  TVhy  don't  you  talk  with  Dr.  Buell  ?  He  is  safe  and  a  sound 
man,  and  likely  he  could  tell  you  something  about  bringing  up 
children." 

"  Dr.  Buell  is  better  at  sermons  than  children,"  said  Agate, 
with  some  decision.  "  That  boy  of  his  is  a  perfect  limb.  I  don't 
know  why  it  is,  but  some  good  folks  are  unlucky  with  their 
children.  They  take  a  deal  of  pains  with  them,  and  learn  them 
every  thing  that's  good,  and  the  minute  the  children  get  a  chance, 
they  learn  themselves  every  thing  that's  bad  !  " 

This  conversation  did  not  bring  to  faithful  Agate's  heart  much 
comfort. 

Meanwhile,  Rose,  the  subject  of  so  much  anxiety,  lived  in  un- 
broken joyfulness.  Hers  was  one  of  those  fortunate  natures 
that  receive  benefit  from  all,  and  injury  from  none.  She  lived 
loving  and  happy  among  the  various  persons  who  surrounded  her. 
She  loved  the  exact  and  faithful  Agate ;  she  loved  the  mild  and 
gentle  Mother  Taft ;  she  loved  the  boisterous  ways  of  shrewd 
Tommy  Taft ;  she  loved  and  somewhat  feared  the  simple  but 
stately  manners  of  Dr.  Buell ;  she  loved  her  mother  dearly,  but 
her  father  above  all.  Yet  this  seemed  to  her  scarcely  like  loving 
another.  So  perfectly  were  father  and  daughter  in  sympathy,  that 
it  hardly  needed  words  to  interpret  between  them.  They  seemed 
like  one  soul  in  two  bodies. 


CHAPTER  XYII. 

A   NEW-ENGLAJND   SUNDAY. 

Time  waits  for  no  man,  and  least  of  all  for  storj  writers.  Our 
readers  must  move  six  years  forward  at  a  step,  and  rest  for  one 
Sunday  in  ITorwood,  where  travelling  on  Sunday  is  yet  against  the 
law. 

It  is  worth  all  the  inconveniences  arising  from  the  occas'onal 
over-action  of  iSTew-England  Sabbath  Observance,  to  obtain  the  full 
flavor  of  a  iN'ew-England  Sunday.  But  for  this,  one  should  have 
been  born  there ;  should  have  found  Sunday  already  waiting  for 
him,  and  accepted  it  with  implicit  and  absolute  conviction,  as  if  it 
were  a  law  of  nature,  in  the  same  way  that  night  and  day,  summer 
and  winter,  are  parts  of  nature.  He  should  have  been  brought  up 
by  parents  who  had  done  the  same  thing ;  as  they  were  by  parents 
even  more  strict,  if  that  were  possible ;  until,  not  religious  persons 
peculiarly,  but  every  body, — not  churches  alone,  but  society  itself, 
and  all  its  population,  those  who  broke  it  as  much  as  those  who 
kept  it — were  stained  through  with  the  color  of  Sunday.  IS'ay, 
until  ]^ature  had  adopted  it,  and  laid  its  commands  on  all  birds  and 
beasts,  on  the  sun  and  winds,  and  upon  the  whole  atmosphere,  so 
that,  without  much  imagination,  one  might  imagine,  in  a  genuine 
IsTew-England  Sunday  of  the  Connecticut  river  valley  stamp,  that 
God  was  still  on  that  day  resting  from  all  the  work  which  he  had 
created  and  made,  and  that  all  his  work  rested  with  him ! 

Over  all  the  town  rested  the  Lord's  peace !  The  saw  was  rip- 
ping away  yesterday  in  the  carpenter's  shop,  and  the  hammer  was 
noisy  enough.  To-day  there  is  not  a  sign  of  life  there.  The  anvil 
makes  no  music  to-day.  Tommy  Taft's  buckets  and  barrels  give 
forth  no  hollow,  thumping  sound.  The  mill  is  silent — only  the 
brook  continues  noisy.  Listen !  In  yonder  pine  woods  what  a 
cawing  of  crows !  Like  an  echo,  in  a  wood  still  more  remote, 
other  crows  are  answering.  But  even  a  crow's  throat  to-day  is 
musical.  Do  they  think,  because  they  have  black  coats  on,  that 
they  are  parsons,  and  have  a  right  to  play  pulpit  with  all  the  pine 
trees?    ISTay.     The  birds  will  not  have  any  such  monopoly, — they 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  121 

are  all  singing,  and  singing  all  together,  and  no  one  cares  wliethei 
his  song  rushes  across  another's  or  not.  Larks  and  robins,  black' 
birds  and  orioles,  sparrows  and  bluebirds,  mocking  cat-birds  and 
wrens,  were  furroYr'^ng  the  air  with  such  mixtures  as  no  other  day 
but  Sunday, when  all  artificial  and  human  sounds  cease,  could  ever 
hear.  Every  now  and  then  a  bobolink  seemed  impressed  with 
the  duty  of  bringing  these  jangling  birds  into  more  regularity ; 
and,  like  a  country  singing-master,  he  flew  down  the  ranks,  sing- 
ing all  the  parts  himself  in  snatches,  as  if  to  stimulate  and  help  the 
laggards.  In  vain !  Sunday  is  the  birds'  day,  and  they  will  have 
their  own  democratic  worship  ! 

There  was  no  sound  in  the  village  street.  Look  either  way — 
not  a  vehicle,  not  a  human  being  !  The  smoke  rose  up  soberly  and 
quietly,  as  if  it  said — It  is  Sunday  !  The  leaves  on  the  great  elms 
hung  motionless,  glittering  in  dew,  as  if  they  too,  like  the  people 
who  dwelt  under  their  shadow,  were  waiting  for  the  bell  to  ring 
for  meeting.  Bees  sung  and  flew  as  usual,  but  honey-bees  have  a 
Sunday  way  with  them  all  the  week,  and  could  scarcely  change  for 
the  better  on  the  seventh  day ! 

But  oh,  the  Sun!  It  had  sent  before  and  cleared  every 
stain  out  of  the  sky.  The  blue  heaven  was  not  dim  and  low,  as  on 
secular  days,  but  curved  and  deep,  as  if  on  Sunday  it  shook  off  all 
incumbrance  which  during  the  week  had  lowered  and  flattened  it, 
and  sprang  back  to  the  arch  and  symmetry  of  a  dome.  AU  ordi- 
nary sounds  caught  the  spirit  of.  the  day.  The  shutting  of  a  door 
sounded  twice  as  far  as  usual.  The  rattle  of  a  bucket  in  a  neigh- 
bor's yard,  no  longer  mixed  with  heterogeneous  noises,  seemed  a 
new  sound.  The  hens  went  silently  about,  and  roosters  crowed 
in  psalm-tunes.  And  when  the  first  beU  rung,  iN'ature  seemed  over- 
joyed to  find  something  that  it  might  do  without  breaking  Sunday, 
and  rolled  the  sound  over  and  over,  and  pushed  it  through  the  air, 
and  raced  with  it  over  field  and  hiU,  twice  as  far  as  on  week  days. 
There  were  no  less  than  seven  steeples  in  sight  from  the  belfry, 
and  the  sexton  said :  "  On  still  Sundays  I've  heard  the  bell,  at  one 
time  and  another,  when  the  day  was  fair,  and  the  air  moving  in 
the  right  way,  from  every  one  of  them  steei^les,  and  I  guess  likely 
they've  all  heard  our'n." 

"  Come,  Rose  !  "  said  Agate  Bissell,  at  an  even  earlier  hour  than 
wLen  Rose  usually  awakened — "  Come,  Rose,  it  is  the  Sabbath. 


122  Norwood ;  or,  . 

"We  must  not  be  late  Sunday  morning  of  all  days  in  the  week.    It 
is  the  Lord's  day." 

There  was  little  preparation  required  for  the  day.  Saturday 
night,  in  some  parts  of  New-England,  was  considered  almost  as 
sacred  as  Sunday  itself.  After  sundown  on  Saturday  night  no  play, 
and  no  work,  except  such  as  is  immediately  preparatory  to  the 
Sabbath,  were  deemed  becoming  in  good  Christians.  The  clothes 
had  been  laid  out  the  night  before.  Nothing  was  forgotten.  The 
best  frock  was  ready ;  the  hose  and  shoes  were  waiting.  Every 
article  of  linen,  every  ruffle  and  ribbon,  were  selected  on  Saturday 
night.  Every  one  in  the  house  walked  mildly.  Every  one  spoke  in 
a  low  tone.  Yet  all  were  cheerful.  The  mother  had  on  her  kind- 
est face,  and  nobody  laughed,  but  every  body  made  it  up  in  smiling. 
The  nurse  smiled,  and  the  children  held  on  to  keep  down  a  giggle 
within  t|ie  lawful  bounds  of  a  smile ;  and  the  doctor  looked  rounder 
and  calmer  than  ever ;  and  the  dog  flapped  his  tail  on  the  floor 
with  a  softened  sound,  as  if  he  had  fi-esh  Avrapped  it  in  hair  for 
that  very  day.  Aunt  Toodie,  the  cook,  (so  the  children  had 
changed  Mrs.  Sarah  Good's  name,)  was  blacker  than  ever  and 
shinier  than  ever,  and  the  cofi'ee  better,  and  the  cream  richer,  and 
the  broiled  chickens  juicier  and  more  tender,  and  the  biscuit 
whiter  and  the  corn-bread  more  brittle  and  sweet. 

"When  the  good  doctor  read  the  Scriptures  at  family  prayer,  the 
infection  of  silence  had  subdued  everything  except  the  clock.  Out 
of  the  wide  hall  could  be  heard  in  the  stillness  the  old  clock,  that 
now  lifted  up  its  voice  with  unwonted  emphasis,  as  if,  unnoticed 
through  the  bustling  week,  Sunday  was  its  vantage  ground,  to  pro- 
claim to  mortals  the  swift  flight  of  time  !  And  if  the  old  pedant 
performed  the  task  with  something  of  an  ostentatious  precision, 
it  was  because  in  that  house  nothing  else  put  on  official  airs,  and 
the  clock  felt  the  responsibility  of  doing  it  for  the  whole  mansion ! 

And  now  came  mother  and  catechism ;  for  Mrs.  "Wentworth 
followed  the  old  custom,  and  declared  that  no  child  of  hers  should 
grow  up  without  catechism.  Secretly,  the  doctor  was  quite 
willing,  though  openly  he  played  oflf  upon  the  practice  a  world  ot 
good-natured  discouragement,  and  declared  that  there  should  be  an 
opposition  set  up — a  catechism  of  Nature,  with  natural  laws  for 
decrees,  and  seasons  for  Providence,  and  flowers  for  graces !  The 
younger  children  were  taught  in  simple  catechism.    But  Rose, 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England.  123 

having  reached  the  mature  age  of  twelve,  was  now  manifesting 
her  power  over  the  Westminster  Shorter  Catechism,  and  as  it  was 
simply  an  achievement  of  memory  and  not  of  the  understanding, 
she  had  the  book  at  great  advantage,  and  soon  subdued  every 
question  and  answer  in  it.  As  much  as  possible,  the  doctor  waa 
kept  aloof  on  such  occasions.  His  grave  questions  were  not  to 
edification,  and  often  they  caused  Rose  to  stumble,  and  brought 
down  sorely  the  exultation  with  which  she  rolled  forth  "  they  that 
are  effectually  called  do  in  this  life  partake  of  justification,  adop- 
tion, sanctification  and  the  several  benefits  which  in  this  life  do 
either  accompany  or  flow  from  them." 

"  What  do  those  words  mean.  Rose  ?  " 

"  Which  words,  pa  ? " 

"Adoption,  sanctification  and  justification?" 

Rose  hesitated,  and  looked  at  her  mother  for  rescue. 

"Doctor,  why  do  you  trouble  the  child?  Of  course,  she  don't 
know  yet  all  the  meaning.  But  that  will  come  to  her  when  she 
grows  older." 

"  You  make  a  nest  of  her  memory,  then,  and  put  words  there, 
like  eggs,  for  future  hatching?  " 

"  Yes,  that  is  it  exactly ;  birds  do  not  hatch  their  eggs  the 
minute  they  lay  them.     They  wait." 

•'  Laying  eggs  at  twelve  to  be  hatched  at  twenty  is  subjecting 
them  to  some  risk,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  It  might  be  so  with  eggs,  but  not  with  catechism.  That  will 
keep  without  spoiling  a  hundred  years !  " 

"  Because  it  is  so  dry  ?  " 

"Because  it  is  so  good.  But  do,  dear  husband,  go  away,  and 
not  put  notions  in  the  children's  heads.  It's  hard  enough  already 
to  get  them  through  their  tasks.  Here's  poor  Arthur,  who  has 
been  two  Sundays  on  one  question,  and  has  not  got  it  yet." 

Arthur,  aforesaid,  was  sharp  and  bright  in  any  thing  addressed 
to  his  reason,  but  he  had  no  verbal  memory,  and  he  was  therefore 
wading  painfully  through  the  catechism  like  a  man  in  a  deep, 
muddy  road,  with  this  difference,  that  the  man  carries  too  much 
clay  with  him,  while  nothing  stuck  to  poor  Arthur.  Great 
was  the  lad's  pride  and  exultation  on  a  former  occasion  when  his 
mother  advanced  him  from  the  smaller  Catechism  to  the  dignity 
of  the  Westminster  Catechism.     He  could  hardly  wait  for  Sunday 


124  •  Noricood ;  or, 

to  begin  his  conqnests.  He  was  never  known  after  the  first  Sun- 
day to  show  any  further  impatience.  He  had  been  four  weeks  in 
reaching  the  fourth  question,  and  two  weeks  alreadj  had  he  lain 
before  that  luminous  answer,  beating  on  it,  like  a  ship  too  deeply 
laden,  and  unable  to  cross  the  bar. 

"  What  is  God,  Arthur  ?  "  said  his  mother.  - 

•    "  God  is — is  a — God  is— and  God— God  is  a " 

Having  got  safely  so  far,  the  mother  suggests  "  spirit,''  at  which 
he  gasps  eagerly,  "  God  is  a  Spirit." 

"Infinite,"  says  the  mother. 

"  Infinite,"  says  Arthur. 

And  then  blushing  and  twisting  in  his  chair,  he  seemed  unable 
to  extract  any  thing  more. 

"  Eternal,"  says  the  mother. 

"  Eternal,"  says  the  boy. 

"  Well,  go  on ;  God  is  a  spirit,  infinite,  eternal ; — what  else?  " 

"  God  is  a  spirit,  eternal,  infinite, —  what  else?  " 

"  ITonsense,"  says  the  startled  mother. 

"  iTonsense,"  goes  on  the  boy,  supposing  it  to  be  a  part  of  the 
regular  answer. 

"  Arthur,  stop !  what  work  you  are  making  !  " 

To  stop  was  the  very  exercise  in  Catechism  at  which  he  was 
most  proficient ;  and  he  stopped  so  fully  and  firmly  that  nothing 
more  could  be  got  out  of  him  or  into  him  during  the  exercise.  But 
his  sorrow  soon  fled,  for  the  second  bell  had  rung,  and  it  was  just 
time  to  walk,  and  "every  body  was  going,"  tlie  servant  reported. 
The  doctor  had  been  called  away,  and  his  wife  and  the  children 
moved  down  the  yard, — Rose  with  demure  propriety,  and  Arthur 
and  his  eight-year-old  brother,  Charles,  with  less  piety  manifest 
in  deportment,  but,  on  the  whole,  with  decent  demeanor.  The 
beauty  of  the  day,  the  genial  season  of  the  year,  brought  forth 
every  one — old  men  and  their  feebler  old  wives,  young  and  hearty 
men  and  their  plump  and  ruddy  companions, — young  men  and 
girls  and  children,  thick  as  punctuation  points  in  Hebrew  text, 
filled  the  street.  In  a  low  voice,  they  spoke  to  each  other  in  sin- 
gle sentences. 

"  A  fine  day !  There'll  be  a  good  congregation  out  to-day." 

"  Y6s ;  we  may  expect  a  house  full.  How  is  Widow  Cheney- 
have  you  heard  ? " 


Village  Life  in  Neio  Encjland,  125 

"  "WoU,  not  much  better ;  can't  liold  out  many  days.  It  will  bi 
a  great  loss  to  the  children." 

"  Yes ;  but  we  must  all  die — nobody  can  skip  his  turn.  Does 
ehe  still  talk  about  them  that's  gone  ?  " 

"  They  say  not.  I  believe  she's  sunk  into  a  quiet  way  ;  and  it 
looks  as  if  she  would  go  off  easy." 

"  Sunday  is  a  good  day  for  dying — it's  about  the  only  journey 
that  speeds  well  on  this  day !  " 

There  was  something  striking  in  the  outflow  of  people  into  the 
street  that,  till  now,  had  seemed  utterly  deserted.  There  was  no 
fevered  hurry ;  no  negligent  or  poorly  dressed  people.  Every 
family  came  in  groups — old  folks  and  young  children  ;  and  every 
member  blossomed  forth  in  his  best  apparel,  like  a  rose-bush  in 
June.  Do  you  know  that  man  in  a  silk  hat  and  new  black  coat  ? 
Probably  it  is  some  stranger.  No ;  it  is  the  carpenter,  Mr.  Baggs, 
who  was  racing  about  yesterday  with  his  sleeves  rolled  up,  and  a 
dust-and-business  look  in  his  face !  I  knew  you  would  not  know 
him.  Adams  Gardner,  the  blacksmith, — does  he  not  look  every 
ioch  a  judge,  now  that  he  is  clean-washed,  shaved,  and  dressed? 
His  eyes  are  as  bright  as  the  sparks  that  fly  from  his  anvil ! 

Are  not  the  folks  proud  of  their  children  ?  See  what  groups  of 
them  !  How  ruddy  and  plump  are  most !  Some  are  roguish,  and 
cut  clandestine  capers  at  every  chance.  Others  seem  like  wax 
figures,  so  perfectly  proper  are  they.  Little  hands  go  slyly 
through  the  pickets  to  pluck  a  tempting  flower.  Other  hands  car- 
ry hymn-books  or  Bibles.  But,  carry  what  they  may,  dressed  as 
each  parent  can  afford,  is  there  any  thing  the  sun  shines  upon  more 
beautiful  than  these  troops  of  Sunday  children? 

The  old  bell  had  it  all  its  own  way  up  in  the  steeple.  It  was 
the  licensed  noise  of  the  day.  In  a  long  shed  behind  the  church 
stood  a  score  and  half-score  of  wagons  and  chaises  and  carryalls, 
— the  horses  already  beginning  the  forenoon's  work  of  stamping 
and  whisking  the  flies.  More  were  coming.  Hiram  Beers  had 
"hitched  up,"  and  brought  two  loads  with  his  new  hack,  and 
now,  having  secured  the  team,  he  stood  with  a  few  admiring 
young  fellows  about  him,  remarking  on  the  people  as  they  came  up 
"  Tliere's  Trowbridge — he'll  git  asleep  afore  the  first  prayer's 
over.  I  don't  blieve  he's  h^erd  a  sermon  in  ten  years.  I've  seen 
him  sleep  standin'  up  in  singin'. 


126  Norwood ;  OTy 

"Here  comes  Deacon  Marble, — smart  old  feller,  ain't  he?  — 
wouldn't  think  it,  jest  to  look  at  him  !  Face  looks  like  an  ear  of  last 
snmmer's  sweet  corn,  all  dried  up ;  but  I  tell  ye  he's  got  the  juice 
in  him  yit.  Aunt  Polly's  gittin'  old,  aint  she?  They  say  she  can't 
walk  half  the  time — lost  the  use  of  her  limbs ;  but  it's  all  gone  to 
her  tongue.  That's  as  good  as  a  razor,  and  a  sight  better  'n  mine, 
for  it  never  needs  sharpenin'. 

"Stand  away,  boys,  there's  'Biah  Cathcart.  Good  horses — not 
fast,  but  mighty  strong,  just  like  the  owner." 

And  with  that  Hiram  touched  his  new  Sunday  hat  to  Mrs. 
Cathcart  and  Alice  ;  and  as  he  took  the  horses  by  the  bits,  he 
dropped  his  head  and  gave  the  Cathcart  boys  a  look  of  such  awful 
solemnity,  all  except  one  eye,  that  they  lost  their  sobriety.  Barton 
alone  remained  sober  as  a  judge. 

"  Here  comes  '  Dot-and-Go  One '  and  his  wife.  They're  my 
kind  o'  Christians.     She  is  a  saint,  at  any  rate." 

"  How  is  it  with  you,  Tommy  Taft  ?  " 

"  Fair  to  middlin',  thank'e.  Such  weather  would  make  a  hand- 
spike blossom,  Hiram  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  think  that's  a  leetle  strong,  Tommy,  for  Sunday  ? 
P'raps  you  mean  afore  it's  cut? " 

"  Sartin  ;  that's  what  I  mean.  But  you  mustn't  stop  me  Hiram. 
Parson  Buell  '11  be  lookin'  for  me.  He  never  begins  till  I  git 
there." 

"  You  mean  you  always  git  there  'fore  he  begins  ? " 

iRext,  Hiram's  prying  eyes  saw  Mr.  Turfmould,  the  sexton  and 
undertaker,  who  seemed  to  be  in  a  pensive  meditation  upon  all  the 
dead  that  he  had  ever  buried.  He  looked  upon  men  in  a  mild  and 
pitying  manner,  as  if  he  forgave  them  for  being  in  good  health. 
You  could  not  help  feeling  that  he  gazed  upon  you  with  a  profes- 
sional eye,  and  saw  just  how  you  would  look  in  the  condition  which 
was  to  him  the  most  interesting  period  of  a  man's  earthly  state. 
He  walked  with  a  soft  tread,  as  if  he  was  always  at  a  funeral ;  and, 
when  he  shook  your  hand,  his  left  hand  half-followed  his  right,  as 
if  he  were  about  beginning  to  lay  you  out.  He  was  one  of  the  few 
men  absorbed  by  his  business,  and  who  unconsciously  measured  all 
things  from  its  stand-point. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Turfmould !  How's  your  health?  ITow's 
business  with  yon  ? " 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  127 

"  Good — the  Lord  be  praised !     I've  no  reason  to  complain." 

And  he  glided  silently  and  smoothly  into  the  church. 

''There  comes  Judge  Bacon,  white  and  ugly,"  said  the  critical 
Hiram.  "  I  wonder  what  he  comes  to  meetin'  for.  Lord  knows 
he  needs  it,  sly,  slippery  old  sinner  !  Face  's  as  white  as  a  lily  ; 
his  heart's  as  black  as  a  chimney  flue  afore  it's  cleaned.  He'll  get 
his  flue  burned  out  if  he  don't  repent,  that's  certain.  He  don't 
believe  the  Bible.  They  say  he  don't  believe  in  God.  Wal,  I 
guess  it's  pretty  even  between  'em.  Shouldn't  wonder  if  God 
didn't  believe  in  him  neither." 

Hiram's  prejudices  were  perhaps  a  little  too  severe.  The  judge 
was  very  selfish,  but  not  otherwise  bad.  He  would  not  do  a  posi- 
tively bad  deed  if  he  could  help  it ;  but  he  neglected  to  do  a  great 
many  good  ones  which  other  men  with  warm  hearts  would  have 
done.  But  he  made  up  in  manner  whatever  he  lacked  in  feeling. 
Dressed  with  unexceptionable  propriety,  his  whole  bearing  was 
dignified  and  kind.  Ko  man  in  the  village  spoke  more  musically 
and  gently ;  no  one  met  you  with  a  greater  cordiality.  His  ex- 
pressions of  kind  wishes,  and  his  anxiety  to  serve  you,  needed  only 
a  single  instance  of  hearty  fulfilment  to  make  Judge  Bacon  seem 
sincerely  and  unusually  kind.  But  those  who  had  most  to  do  with 
him  found  that  he  was  cold  and  selfish  at  heart,  inflexible  and  un- 
feeling when  seeking  his  rights  or  interests ;  and  his  selfishness 
was  the  more  ghastly  as  it  clothed  itself  in  the  language  and  man- 
ners of  gentle  goodwill. 

"  He  talks  to  you,"  said  Hiram,  "just  as  Black  Sam  lathers 
you  ;  a  kind  of  smooth  rubbing  goes  on,  and  you  feel  soft  and  satis- 
fied with  yourself,  and  sort  o'  lean  to  him,  when  he  takes  you  by 
the  nose  and  shaves,  and  shaves,  and  shaves,  and  it's  so  smooth  that 
you  don't  feel  the  razor.  But  I  tell  you,  when  you  git  away  your 
skin  smarts.     You've  been  shaved. 

"  Here  come  the  Bages,  and  the  "Weekses,  and  a  whole  raft 
from  Hardscrabble,"  said  Hiram,  as  five  or  six  one-horse  wagons 
drove  up.  At  a  glance  one  could  see  that  these  were  farmers  who 
lived  to  work.  They  were  spare  in  figure,  brown  in  complexion — 
every  thing  worn  off  but  bone  and  muscle — like  ships  with  iron 
masts  and  wire  rigging.  They  drove  little  nubbins  of  horses,  tough 
and  rough,  that  had  never  felt  a  blanket  in  winter  or  known  a 
leisure  day  in  summer. 


128  Norwood ;  or, 

"  Them  fellers,"  said  Hiram,  "  is  just  like  stones.  I  don't 
believe  there's  any  blood  or  innards  in  'em  more'n  in  a  crowbar. 
They  work  early,  and  work  all  day,  and  in  the  night,  and  keep 
workin',  and  never  seem  to  get  tired  except  Sunday,  when  they've 
nothin'  to  do.  You  know  when  Fat  Porter  was  buried,  they 
couldn't  git  him  into  the  hearse,  and  had  to  carry  him  with  poles, 
and  Weeks  was  one  of  the  bearers,  and  they  had  a  pretty  heavy 
time  of  it,  nigh  about  three  hours,  what  with  liftin'  and  fixin' 
him  at  the  house,  and  fetchin'  him  to  the  church  door,  and  then 
carryin'  aim  to  the  graveyard,  and  "Weeks  said  he  hadn't  enjoyed 
a  Sunday  so  much  he  couldn't  tell  when. 

" '  Hiram,'  sez  he,  '  I  should  like  Sunday  as  well  as  week  days 
if  I  could  work  on  it ;  but  I  git  awful  tired  doin'  nothin',' 

"  They  say,"  said  Hiram,  "  that  they  never  do  exactly  die  up 
in  Hardscrabble.  They  work  up  and  up,  and  grow  thinner  and 
thinner  like  a  knife-blade,  till  they  git  so  small  that  someday  they 
accidentally  git  misplaced  or  dropped,  and  nobody  misses  'em. 
So  that  they  die  off  in  a  general  way,  like  pins,  without  any  one  of 
'em  making  a  particular  fuss  about  it.  But  I  guess  that  ain't  so," 
added  Hiram,  with  a  grave  air,  as  if  fearing  that  he  might  mislead 
the  young  folks  about  him.  Then,  with  demure  authority,  he 
said:  "Boys,  go  in  ;  the  bell's  done  tollin\  andmeetin's  goin'to 
begin.  Go  in,  and  don't  make  a  noise,  and  see  you  tell  me  where 
the  text  is.  I've  got  to  look  after  these  horses,  or  they'll  get 
mixed  up." 

This  remark  was  called  forth  by  a  squeal  and  a  rattle  and 
backing  of  wagons,  which  showed  that  mischief  was  already 
brewing. 

Having  got  the  people  all  safely  into  church,  Hira«i  bestowed 
his  attention  on  the  horses.  The  whole  green  was  lined  with 
horses.  Every  hitching-post,  and  the  railing  along  the  sidewalk 
and  at  the  fronts  of  the  stores,  were  closely  occupied. 

Seeing  Pete  leaning  on  Dr.  Wentworth's  gate,  Hiram  beckoned 
him  over,  and  employed  him  in  his  general  tour  of  inspection  as  a 
bishop  might  employ  his  chaplain.  Here  the  reins  had  been  pulled 
under  a  horse's  feet,  next  a  horse  had  got  his  bridle  off;  another 
had  backed  and  filled  till  the  wagon  wheels  were  cramped ;  and 
at  each  position,  Hiram  issued  orders  to  Pete,  who  good-naturedly, 
and  as  a  matter  indisputable,  did  as  he  was  ordered.      If  Hiram 


Village  Life  in  New  Enfjland.  129 

had  told  Pete  to  shoulder  one  of  the  horses,  lie  would  have  made 
the  attempt. 

"  Look  here,  Pete,  if  that  ain't  a  shame,  then  there  ain't  nc 
truth  in  the  ten  commandments !  A  man  that'll  drive  a  horse  with 
a  sore  shoulder  like  that  is  a  brute.  Just  feel  how  hot  it  is, — 
Pete,  you  get  a  bucket  of  water,  and  put  a  little  warm  in  it  to 
take  off  the  chill,  and  wash  that  off,  and  take  him  out  of  harness, — 
I  swow  ! — and  I  don't  know  but  I  ought  to  say  I  swear  I  for  it's 
Sunday  work.  Anyhow,  if  Blakesley  don't  know  any  better  than 
that,  he  ought  not  to  own  a  horse.  There  he  is  in  church  a 
hearin'  the  Gospel,  and  feelin'  all  over  as  comfortable  as  a  cruller, 
and  he's  left  his  horse  oat  here  to  the  flies  and  the  sun,  with  a 
shoulder  that's  a.  disgrace  to  Christianity.  But  that's  the  way  with 
us  pretty  much  all  'round.*  If  we  are  good  here,  we  are  bad  there. 
Folks 's  good  and  bad  is  like  a  board -teeter,— if  one  end  goes  up, 
t'other  is  sure  to  go  down." 

It  was  curious  to  see  Pete's  superiority  to  Hiram  in  the  matter 
of  dogs.  In  several  wagons  lay  the  master's  dog,  and  Hiram  was 
not  permitted  to  approach  without  dispute  ;  but  there  was  not  a 
dog,  big  or  little,  cross  or  affectionate,  that  did  not  own  the  myste- 
rious power  that  Pete  had  over  animals.  Even  dogs  in  whom  a 
sound  conscience  was  bottomed  on  an  ugly  temper,  practised  a 
surly  submission  to  Pete's  familiarity. 

It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock,  when  Dr.  Wentworth,  returning 
from  his  round  of  visits,  found  Hiram  sitting  on  the  fence,  his 
labors  over,  and  waiting  for  Dr.  Buell  to  finish. 

"  Xot  in  church,  Hiram  ?  I'm  afraid  you've  not  been  a 
good  boy." 

''Don't  know.  Somebody  must  take  care  of  the  outside  as 
well  as  inside  of  church.  Dr.  Buell  rubs  down  the  folks,  and  I 
rub  thf-  horses ;  he  sees  that  their  tacklin'  is  all  right  in  there,  and 
I  do  the  same  out  here.  Folks  and  animals  are  pretty  much  of  a 
muchness,  and  they'll  bear  a  sight  of  takin'  care  of." 

"  Whose  nag  is  that  one,  Hiram,— the  roan?  " 

"  Tliat's  Deacon  Marble's."  •    " 

"  Why  he  seems  to  sweat,  standing  still." 

Hiram's  eye  twinkled. 

'  You  needn't  say  nothin'.  Doctor,— but  I  thought  it  a  pity  so 
many  horses  shouldn't  be  doin'  any  thing!     Of  course,  they  don't 


130  Norv)ood, 

know  any  thing  about  Sunday, — it  aint  like  workin'  a  creatur'  that 
reads  the  Bible, — so  I  just  slipped  over  to  Skiddy's  widder — she 
ain't  been  out  doors  this  two  months,  and  I  knew  she  ought  to 
have  the  air — and  I  gave  her  about  a  mile !  She  was  afraid  'twould 
be  breakin'  Sunday. — '  Not  a  bit,'  says  I ;  '  didn't  the  Lord  go  out 
Sundays,  and  set  folks  off  with  their  beds  on  their  backs ;  and 
didn't  He  pull  oxen  and  sheep  out  of  ditches,  and  do  all  that  sort 
of  thing  V  If  she'd  knew  that  I  took  the  Deacon's  team,  she'd 
been  worse  afraid.  But  I  knew  the  Deacon  would  like  it ;  and  if 
Polly  didn't,  so  much  the  better.  I  like  to  spite  those  folks  that's 
too  particular! — There,  Doctor,  there's  the  last  hymn." 

It  rose  upon  the  air,  softened  by  distance  and  the  enclosure  of 
the  building, — rose  and  fell  in  regular  movement.  Even  Hiram's 
tongue  ceased.  The  vireo,  in  the  tops  of  the  elm,  hushed  its  shrill 
snatches.  Again  the  hymn  rose,  and  this  time  fuller  and  louder, 
as  if  the  whole  congregation  had  caught  the  spirit.  Men's  and 
women's  voices,  and  little  children's,  were  in  it.  Hiram  said, 
without  any  of  his  usual  pertness : 

"  Doctor,  there's  somethin'  in  folks  singin'  when  you  are 
outside  the  church  that  makes  you  feel  as  though  you  ought  to  be 
inside.  '  Mebbe  a  fellow  will  be  left  outside,  up  there,  when 
they're  singin' — if  he  don't  look  out." 

When  the  last  verse  had  ended,  a  pause  and  silence  ensued. 
Then  came  a  gentle  bustle,  a  sound  of  pattering  feet.  Out  shot  a 
boy,  and  then  two  or  three,  and  close  upon  them  a  bunch  of  men. 
The  doors  were  wide  open  and  thronged.  The  whole  green  was 
covered  with  people,  and  the  sidewalks  were  crowded. 

Tommy  Taft  met  the  minister  at  the  door,  and  put  out  his  great 
rough  hand  to  shake. 

"  Thankee,  Doctor — thankee  ;  very  well  done.  Couldn't  do  it 
better  myself.  It'll  do  good — know  it!  Feel  better  myself;  I 
need  just  such  preachin' — mouldy  old  sinner — need  a  scourin' 
about  once  a  week.  Drefful  wicked  to  hev  such  doctrine,  and  not 
be  no  better — ain't  it.  Doctor  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE    SUBJECT    CONTINUED. 

Wk  are  not  to  suppose,  in  a  New  England  to-vm,  that  the 
measure  of  a  sermon's  effect  is  to  be  judged  by  the  impression 
immediately  produced  upon  the  audience.  There  are  usually  in 
every  large  church  in  a  New  England  town  several  families  of 
great  refinement  and  trained  to  scholarly  thought.  But,  aside 
fi-om  these,  there  are  scores  of  plain  men  who  have  from  their  very 
infancy  been  trained  to  read,  think,  and  discuss  moral  problems 
often  the  most  remote  from  ordinary  life.  Many  of  these  homely 
and  awkward  bodies  carry  in  them  fine  machinery.  A  sermon, 
therefore,  falls  upon  such  an  audience  as  the  waters  do  upon  mill- 
wheels.  However  much  it  may  sparkle  and  rush  upon  the  great 
external  wheel,  that  is  but  a  small  part  of  the  effect  produced. 
The  whole  interior  is  set  in  motion— spindles  twirl,  looms  clank, 
and  the  whole  building  is  filled  with  buzzing  activity. 

"When  the  congregation  breaks  up  they  carry  out  the  subject 
with  them.  It  probes  them,  excites  them,  sharpens  them  ;  and  in 
scores  of  homes  for  the  day  and  week,  around  the  table,  young 
and  old  controvert,  defend,  or  variously  follow  out  the  Sunday 
sermon.  In  this  way  the  community  is  seasoned  with  religious 
thought.  Even  if  sometimes  a  too  exclusively  doctrinal  discourse 
draws  upon  itself  the  charge  of  being  unpractical,  it  can  seldom  be 
charged  with  emptiness  or  mere  sentimentalism.  There  is  apt  to 
be  food  in  it  for  men.    Let  us  Hsten  to  some  of  the  comments. 

Judge  Bacon  walks  with  Mr.  Gallup— and  knowing  that  Mr. 
Gallup  would  repeat  whatever  he  said,  and  that  it  would  speedily 
reach  the  minister's  ears,  he  remarks : 

"An  excellent  performance.  The  grounds  were  well  taken, 
the  proofs  judiciously  arranged,  and  the  application  timely.  It 
was  a  very  clever  performance.  As  a  specimen  of  special  pleading, 
I  think  it  would  have  ranked  high  in  any  court." 

"  Father,"  said  his  daughter,  "  do  you  believe  in  the  doctrineV 

"  Well,  my  daughter,  in  things  so  mysterious  and  profound  as 
the  conditions  of  Final  Perseverance,  it  may  be  presumptuous  to 


132  Norwood ;  or, 

B2ij  that  we  believe — at  any  rate,  farther  than  we  understand — hnt 
one  may  fitly  say  that  were  such  a  doctrine  conceived  as  being 
true,  Dr.  Buell  has  undoubtedly  presented  it  to-day  in  its  most 
admirable  manner." 

Squire  Yates,  who  never  put  his  foot  in  a  church  from  year's 
end  to  year's  end,  was  waiting  at  Judge  Bacon's  door  for  a 
moment's  interview  : 

"Well,  Judge,  been  to  church,  eh?  Believe  every  word? 
What  was  it — election,  dependence,  or  sovereignty?" 

"Tut,  tut,"  said  Judge  Bacon,  smiling  knowingly,  "it  was  on 
the  perseverance  of  saints.  I  have  concluded  to  persevere.  You 
should  have  heard  it — it  was  likewise  profitable  for  sinners. — What 
did  you  hear  of  our  matters  in  !N'ew  York  ?  Is  the  failure  bad  ? 
Shall  we  secure  much  for  our  clients  ? " 

"  Oh,  Aunt,  I  wish  our  minister  didn't  preach  such  long 
sermons,"  said  a  blooming  girl  of  twelve  to  a  sensible  but  rigid 
and  conscientious  aunt,  Miss  Eccleston,  who  was  not  only  deter- 
mined to  be  good,  but  fiercely  determined ;  and  just  as  determined 
that  every  body  that  she  had  any  thing  to  do  with  should  be  good, 
too.  She  was  angular  and  something  stern  outwardly,  but  true  as 
steel  within ;  straightforward,  truthful,  and  as  unbounded  in  kind- 
ness as  she  was  energetic  in  duty. 

"My  dear,"  said  she,  emphatically,  "you  don't  go  to  church  to 
be  easy.  That  isn't  what  religion  is  for.  It  is  to  stir  us  up.  We 
are  naturally  lazy.  I  don't  believe  in  plush  cushions  in  the  pew 
nor  plush  sermons  in  the  pulpit.  Feathers  !  feathers!  is  the  ruin 
of  many  souls.     The  rod  is  what  folks  need." 

"But,  Aunt,  don't  you  think  a  sermon  that  interests  you  doe? 
more  good  than  one  that  don't  ?  " 

"My  dear,  you  ougTit  to  be  interested.  Dr.  Buell  didn't  make 
the  truth — God  made  it.  The  minister's  business  is  to  give  it  to 
the  people  as  he  finds  it,  and  it's  their  business  to  be  interested." 

An  older  niece  modestly  asked : 

"  Well,  Aunt,  if  the  minister  has  only  to  give  us  the  truth  as 
he  finds  it,  why,  then,  does  he  not  read  the  Bible,  and  stop?  " 

"Why,  what's  got  into  you,  children?  I  don't  think  it  is  an 
improving  spirit  for  people  to  criticise  what  they  hear,  and  find 
fault  with  the  sermon.  There's  enough  in  every  one  of  'em,  if  we 
were  in  a  right  state  of  mind,  to  do  us  good.    It  is  bad  manners 


Villacje  Life  in  New  Ene/land,  133 

to  find  fault  with  your  food  at  table,  and  a  good  deal  worse  at 
church." 

The  Cathcarts  went  to  the  TTentworths'.  On  a  plain  table 
stood  some  crackers  and  cheese,  some  plain  gingerbread,  and  a 
plate  of  butter,  while  fragrant  tea  drew  all  eyes  toward  the  head 
of  the  table. 

Cathcart,  in  a  very  clear  and  concise  manner,  stated  to  the  doc- 
tor the  substance  of  the  sermon.  lie  applauded  it  as  an  intellectual 
efibrt,  but  inclined  to  doubt  if  it  was  strictly  scriptural. 

"I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  Arminian  and  Calvinist,  when 
not  under  controversial  fire,  hold  the  facts  substantially  alike.'  The 
issue  is  not  necessary,  is  forced,  is  abstract,  which  divides  them  on 
this  point.  I  am  inclined  to  think  high  doctrinal  preaching  is  less 
often  useful  than  some  suppose." 

^"  There  are  two  sides  to  that,  Cathcart,"  said  Wentworth ; 
"  Xew  England  metaphysics  have  been  a  powerful  agent  against 
materialism.  It  may  be  that  at  any  given  time,  a  high  doctrinal  ser- 
mon is  not  eo  edifying  as  a  simple  practical  one  would  be.  But 
a  community  brought  up,  through  a  hundred  years,  to  task  their 
thought  upon  themes  remote,  difficult,  and  infinite,  will  be  far 
nobler  than  if  they  had  been  fed  upon  easy  thought.  Something  is 
always  to  be  considered  in  such  discussions,  not  only  as  to  the 
effect  of  preaching  on  the  immediate  conduct,  but  also  as  to  a 
slower,  though  even  more  important  effect,  upon  that  whole  moral 
constitution  and  mental  habit  which  is  the  grand  fountain  and 
source  of  conduct." 

"  But  do  you  not  see  churches  worn  out  and  wasted  with  such 
dry  discussion  ? " 

"  The  fault  is  not  in  the  idea,  but  in  the  execution.  Either 
extreme  becomes  unfruitful.  High  philosophic  thought  may,  and 
sliould,  lead  to  broad  practical  applications." 

"  I  see  what  you  mean.  True  doctrinal  preaching,  though  it 
lies  high,  should,  like  clouds,  before  it  gets  through,  come  down  tc 
the  ground  in  rain." 

"  Exactly.  Look  at  the  history  of  New  England  mind  in  a  large 
way.  I  think  we  owe  everything  to  her  theologians,  and  most  to 
the  most  doctrinal.  They  were  shut  out  from  the  world— in  danger 
of  becoming  provincial  and  narrow.  The  outlet  was  found— not 
in  cosmopoHtan  social  customs,  nor  in  art  or  literature— but  in  the- 


134  Norwood ;  or, 

ology.  Such  men  as  Edwards,  Hopkins,  Smalley,  West,  Bellamy, 
Backus,  Burton,  Emmons  lifted  up  the  ISTew  England  mind  into  a 
range  of  speculation  and  conviction  that  ennobled  and  strengthened 
it  as  art  never  could  have  done." 

"  You  are  right ;  but  I  don't  see  what  you  can  do  with  your 
consistency,  for  I've  heard  you  trim  Dr.  Buell  to  his  face  for  his 
metaphysical  sermons." 

"  Only  for  ^or^-sermons ;  thought-sermons  cannot  be  too  high. 
But  a  tangle  of  reasonings  made  up  mostly  of  nice  distinctions  of 
t\-ords  is  an  imposition  on  philosophy.  Buell  does  not  often  get 
into  this  vicious  style.  But  I  could  show  you  good  specimens  of 
what  I  call  vermicular  sermons — a  mere  snarl  of  words  crawling 
over  and  over  each  other,  all  through  the  nest." 

"  But  what  if  a  minister  preaches  real  thoughts,  but  leaves  them 
without  application  ?  " 

"  He  is  like  a  man  who  draws  a  bucket  of  water  from  a  deep, 
deep  well, — like  yours,  for  instance,  sixty  feet  deep, — good  water, 
clear,  cold,  wholesome ;  and,  just  as  he  brings  the  bucket  up  within 
a  few  feet  of  the  curb,  he  fastens  it  there,  where  you  can't  reach  it, 
and  leaves  you  thirsty.  A  cup  of  water  that  you  cannot  reach  is 
as  far  off  from  you  two  feet  below  the  face  of  the  well  as  if  it  were 
at  the  bottom  again !  " 

Farmers,  having  looked  at  their  horses,  and  given  them  a  wisp 
of  hay,  or  a  few  oats,  were  sitting  about  in  groups,  talking  of  various 
things,  but  every  one  of  them,  first  or  last,  had  something  to  say 
of  the  sermon.  Many  a  quaint  originality  was  dropped  unnoticed, 
^fany  a  homely  illustration  was  suggested  full  of  real  poetry  with- 
out its  form.  Some,  of  better  information,  and  habits  of  reading, 
led  off  into  criticisms  on  the  one  side,  or  defences  on  the  other, 
which  showed  that,  however  dry  to  some,  the  doctor  had  reached 
the  minds  of  others,  and  set  them  in  earnest  activity. 

Hiram  had  gone  his  rounds  and  now  joined  the  group ;  and 
having  learned  the  subject  of  the  sermon,  he  expressed  himself 
promptly : 

"  Them  pesky  Methodists  is  gittin'  in  this  town,  and  preachin' 
up  fallin'  from  grace,  and  ridiculin'  election.  Now  them  Calvin 
doctrines  belongs  to  this  town.  They've  always  growed  here, 
You  might  as  well  cut  down  these  old  elm  trees,  and  put  up  soma 
of  your  new-fangled  spindlin'  trees  that  look  like  brooms  bottoir\ 
upward,  as  to  set  out  these  Methodist  notions  here=" 


Vma(/e  Life  in  New  England.  ,35 

"TJ-ell,  Hiram,  dou't  you  believe  a  man  can  fall  from  eraee?  •• 

notio,f"  '  ""  ''"'"'^^*"'  ''^  ^'-S"^'  *«  "^^-^P  "gl't  along-thafs  my 

grac'e  r-'  """  "'"'' '"  ""  ''"''•     ^'"'''  "  ^''"^«''°  "'"'  '^"  from 

"It's  my  notion  that  if  a  man  is  once  convarted,  I.e'll  stay  con- 
varied.    If  he's  got  grace,  he'll  keep  it."  ^ 

"  You  mean  it  will  keep  him." 

"If  a  man  faUs,  and  it  don't  hurt  him  much,  it  shows  that  there 
wan-  no  grace  about  it;  'twas  something  e^;  he  fell  from  tl  It 
lft:7'  '"^"'^  "";'='f^'--    ^  ^-^""-'^  "Pt  to  be  smashed  ;m 

w  nZfeT' '  '^"  ''  '■  ''' ''-' '-'''''  «^  ""«  -*  ^^^"f 

The  more  thoughtful  men  refused  to  discuss  the  cases  in  real 

h    tu  '"""^  '"'""''''^-    ^'  ^^^  '  "^''^  9°«^««°  «f  Scripture.    If 
the  Bible  said  so  it  was  so,  and  we  must  submit  our  reason  to  God'a 

fallitTo™"'''''''  "*?,'  *r  ^^''  '""''  P^^''S«=  *"'  loo^^  liked 

Arminian  the  discussion  soon  waned,  and  was  finally  dosed  by 
Hiram,  who  laid  it  down  with  emphasis  •  ^ 

then  thSfc^^°^'  °°  ^""^1'"'  °°  *'"  ^'''^-    T''^^  J«^'  *  ".  «"d 
argumt?.^       ^       ''"■°'"^"'    ''"'  '^''  ^'"''  ""''"^  ^l^«^ks  for 

As  soon  as  the  afternoon  service  was  over  every  horse  on  the 
green  knew  that  it  was  time  for  him  to  go  home.  Some  gr  w 
restless  and.whinnied  for  their  masters.    Nimble  hands  soon  put 

Then  came  such  a  scramble  of  vehicles  to  the  church  door,  for  the 
older  persons;  while  young  women  and  children,  venturing  further 
out  upon  the  green,  were  taken  np  hastily,  that  the  impatient 
horses  might,  soon  as  possible,  turn  their  heads  homeward.  Clouds 
of  dust  began  to  arise  along  every  outward-going  road.    In  ess 

Irl  tT°"'''  ""*  f  ^'°"°°  <"■  '^''''  ^"^  ^^^^  "P»°  tl^o  village 
fhe  I^r  J  ^^  yere  whirling  homeward  at  the  very  best  pace  that 

eait  bo  1'°  f  ""'■'■  f'"^  "'<>  '''"^'  ^^'"'y  ^^^»yed  a  nimbler 
gait,  but  gave  ,t  up  in  a  few  rods,  and  fell  back  to  the  steady  jog. 
Young  horses,  tired  of  long  standing,  and  with  a  strong  vearning 


136  Norwood ;  or, 

for  evening  oats,  sliot  along  the  level  ground,  rushed  up  the  littla 
hills,  or  down  upon  the  other  side,  in  the  most  un-Sunday-like 
haste.  The  scene  was  not  altogether  unlike  the  return  from  a  mili- 
tary funeral,  to  which  men  march  with  sad  music  and  slow,  "bMt  from 
which  they  return  nimbly  marching  to  the  most  brilliant  quick-step. 

In  half  an  hour  Norwood  was  quiet  again.  The  dinner,  on  Sun- 
day, when  for  the  sake  of  the  outlying  population  the  two  services 
are  brought  near  together  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  was  usually 
deferred  till  the  ordinary  supper  hour.  It  was  evident  that  the 
tone  of  the  day  was  changed.  Children  were  not  so  strictly  held 
in.  There  was  no  loud  talking,  nor  was  laughing  allowed,  but  a 
general  feeling  sprung  up  around  the  table  that  the  severer  tasks 
of  the  day  were  ended. 

Devout  and  age-sobered  people  sat  in  a  kind  of  golden  twilight 
of  meditation.  The  minister,  in  his  well-ordered  house,  tired  with 
a  double  sei'vice,  mingled  thoughts  both  glad  and  sad.  His  tasks 
were  ended.  He  was  conscious  that  he  had  manfully  done  his 
best.  But  that  best  doing,  as  he  reflected  upon  it,  seemed  so 
poor,  so  unworthy  of  the  nobleness  of  the  theme,  and  so  relatively 
powerless  upon  the  stubborn  stuff  of  which  his  people's  dispositions 
were  made,  that  there  remained  a  vague,  unquiet  sense  of  blame 
upon  his  conscience. 

It  was  Dr.  Went  worth's  habit  to  walk  with  his  family  in 
the  garden,  early  in  the  morning  and  late  in  the  afternoon.  If 
early,  Rose  was  usually  his  company  ;  in  the  afternoon  the  whole 
family,  Agate  Bissell  always  excepted.  She  had  in  full  measure 
that  peculiar  Xew  England  feeling  that  Sunday  is  to  be  kept  by 
staying  in  the  house,  except  such  times  as  is  spent  ,at  church. - 
And,  though  she  never,  impliedly  even,  rebuked  the  doctor's  re- 
sort to  his  garden,  it  was  plain  that  deep  down  in  her  heart  she 
thought  it  an  improper  way  of  spending  Sunday;  and  in  that 
view  she  had  the  secret  sympathy  of  almost  all  the  noteworthy 
villagers.  Had  any  one,  upon  that  day,  made  Agate  a  visit,  unless 
for  some  plain  end  of  necessity  or  mercy,  she  would  have  deemed 
it  a  personal  affront. 

Sunday  was  the  Lord's  day.  Agate  acted  as  if  any  use  of  it  for 
her  own  pleasure  would  be  literal  and  downright  stealing. 

"  We  have  six  days  for  our  own  work.  We  ought  not  to  be- 
grudge the  Lord  one  whole  day." 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  137 

Two  circumstances  distres.-ed  honest  Agate's  conscience.  The 
one  was  that  the  incursion  of  summer  visitors  from  the  city  was 
tending  manifestly  to  relax  the  Sabbath,  especially  after  the 
church  services.  The  other  was  that  Dr.  Wentworth  would,  oc- 
casionally, allow  Judge  Bacon  to  call  in  and  discuss  with  him 
topics  suggested  by  the  sermons.  She  once  expressed  herself  in 
this  wise : 

"Either  Sunday  is  worth  keeping  or  it  is  not.  If  you  do  keep 
it,  it  oaght  to  be  strictly  done.  But  lately  Sunday  is  ravelling  out 
at  the  end.  We  take  it  on  like  a  summer  dress,  which  in  the 
morning  is  clean  and  sweet,  but  at  night  it  is  soiled  at  the  bottom 
and  much  rumpled  all  over." 

Dr.  TVentworth  sat  with  Rose  on  one  side  and  her  mother  on 
the  other,  in  the  honeysuckle  corner,  where  the  west  conldbe  seen, 
great  trees  lying  athwart  the  horizon,  and  chequering  the  golden 
light  with  their  dark  masses.  Judge  Bacon  had  turned  the  con- 
versation upon  this  very  topic. 

"I  think  our  Sundays  in  New  England  are  Puritan  and  Jew- 
ish, more  than  Christian.  They  are  days  of  restriction  rather  than 
of  joyousness.     They  are  fast  days,  not  feast  days." 

"  Do  you  say  that  as  a  mere  matter  of  historical  criticism,  or 
do  you  think  that  they  could  be  improved  practically  ?  " 

"  Both.  It  is  susceptible  of  proof  that  the  early  Christian 
Sunday  was  a  day  of  triumph  and  of  much  social  joy.  It  would  be 
well  if  we  could  follow  primitive  example." 

"  Judge,  I  am  hardly  of  your  opinion.  I  should  be  unwilling 
to  see  our  ISTew  England  Sunday  changed,  except,  perhaps,  by  a 
larger  social  liberty  in  each  family.  Much  might  be  done  to  make 
it  attractive  to  children,  and  relieve  older  persons  from  ennui. 
But,  after  all,  we  must  judge  things  by  their  fruits.  If  you  bring 
me  good  apples,  it  is  in  vain  to  abuse  the  tree  as  craggy,  rude,  or 
homely.    The  fruit  redeems  the  tree." 

"  A  very  comely  figure.  Doctor,  but  not  very  good  reasoning. 
New  England  has  had  something  at  work  upon  her  beside  her 
Sundays.  "What  you  call  the  '  fruit '  grew,  a  good  deal  of  it,  at 
any  rate,  on  other  trees  than  Sunday  trees." 

"  You  are  only  partly  right.  New  England  character  and  history 
are  the  result  of  a  wide-spread  system  of  influences  of  which  the 
Sabbath  day  was  the  type — and  not  only  so,  but  the  grand  motive 


138  Norwood ;  or, 

power.  Almost  every  cause  whicli  has  worked  benignly  among 
us  has  received  its  inspiration  and  impulse  largely  from  this  One 
Solitary  Day  of  the  week. 

"  It  is  true  that  all  the  vegetable  growths  that  we  see  about  us 
here  depend  upon  a  great  variety  of  causes ;  but  there  is  one  cause 
that  is  the  condition  of  power  in  every  other,  and  that  is  the  Sun  ! 
And  so,  many  as  have  been  the  influences  working  at  I^ew  Eng- 
land character,  Sunday  has  been  a  generic  and  multiplex  force, 
inspiring  and  directing  all  others.     It  is,  indeed,  the  SurCs  day. 

"  It  is  a  little  singular  that,  borrowing  the  name  from  the 
heathen  calendar,  it  should  have  tallied  so  well  with  the  Scripture 
name,  the  Lord's  day — that  Lord  who  was  the  Morning  Star  in 
early  day,  and  at  length  the  Sun  of  Righteousness !  " 

"  The  Jews  called  it  the  Sabbath — a  day  of  rest.  Modern 
Christians  call  it  the  Sui-Cs  day,  or  the  day  of  light,  warmth  and 
growth.  K  this  seems  fanciful  so  far  as  the  names  of  the  day  are 
concerned,  it  is  strikingly  characteristic  of  the  real  spirit  of  the  two 
days,  in  the  ancient  and  modern  dispensation.  I  doubt  if  the  old 
Jews  ever  kept  a  Sabbath  religiously,  as  we  understand  that  term. 
Indeed,  I  suspect  there  was  not  yet  a  religious  strength  in  that 
national  character  that  could  hold  up  religious  feeling  without  the 
help  of  social  and  even  physical  adjuvants.  Their  religious  days 
were  either  fasts  or  like  our  Thanksgiving  days.  But  the  higher 
and  richer  moral  nature  which  has  been  developed  by  Christianity 
enables  communities  to  sustain  one  day  in  seven  upon  a  higli  spir- 
itual plane,  with  the  need  of  but  very  little  social  help,  and  without 
the  feasting  element  at  all. 

"  That  may  be  very  well  for  a  few  saints  like  you  and  me.  Doc- 
tor, but  it  is  too  high  for  the  majority  of  men.  Common  people 
find  the  strict  Sundays  a  great  annoyance,  and  clandestinely  set 
them  aside." 

"  I  doubt  it.  There  are  a  few  in  every  society  that  live  by 
their  sensuous  nature.  Sunday  must  be  a  dead  day  to  them.  A 
dark  room.  IsTo  wonder  they  break  through.  But  it  is  not  so  with 
the  sturdy  unsophisticated  laboring  class  in  I^Tew  England.  If  it 
came  to  a  vote,  you  would  find  that  the  farmers  of  !N"ew  England 
would  be  the  defenders  of  the  day,  even  if  screwed  up  to  the  old 
strictness.  Their  instinct  is  right.  It  is  an  observance  that  has 
always  worked  its  best  effects  upon  the  common  people,  and  if  I 


Village  Life  in  New  Euf/lancl.  139 

were  to  change  the  name,  I  should  call  Sunday  The  Poor  Man's 
Day. 

"  Men  do  not  yet  perceive  that  the  base  of  the  brain  is  full  of 
despotism,  and  the  coronal  brain  is  radiant  with  liberty.  I  mean 
that  the  laws  and  relations  whicli  grow  out  of  men's  relations  in 
physical  things  arc  the  sternest  and  hardest,  and  at  every  step  in 
the  ascent  toward  reason  and  spirituality,  the  relations  grow  more 
kindly  and  free. 

"  Xow,  it  is  natural  for  men  to  prefer  an  animal  life.  By-and- 
by  thoy  will  learn  that  such  a  life  necessitates  force,  absolutism. 
It  is  natural  for  unreflecting  men  to  complain  when  custom  or 
institutions  hold  them  up  to  some  higher  degree.  But  that  higher 
degree  has  in  it  an  element  of  emancipation  from  the  necessary 
despotisms  of  physical  life.  If  it  were  possible  to  bring  the  whole 
community  up  to  a  phme  of  spirituality,  it  would  be  found  that 
there  and  there  only  could  be  the  highest  measure  of  liberty.  And 
this  is  my  answer  to  those  who  grumble  at  the  restriction  of  Sun- 
day liberty.  It  is  only  the  liberty  of  the  senses  that  suffers.  A 
higher  and  nobler  civil  liberty,  moral  liberty,  social  liberty,  will 
work  out  of  it.     Sunday  is  the  common  people's  Magna  Charta." 

"  Well  done.  Doctor !  I  give  up.  Hereafter  you  shall  see  me 
radiant  on  Sunday.  I  must  not  get  my  hay  in,  if  storms  do  threaten 
to  spoil  it,  but  I  shall  give  my  conscience  a  hitch  up,  and  take  it 
out  in  that.  I  must  not  ride  out.  But,  then,  I  shall  regard  every 
virtuous  self-denial  as  a  moral  investment  with  good  dividends 
coming  in  by-and-by.  I  can't  let  the  children  frolic  in  the  front 
door  yard;  but,  then,  while  they  sit  waiting  for  the  sun  to  go 
down,  and  your  Sun-iisij  to  be  over,  I  shall  console  myself  that 
they  are  one  notch  nearer  an  angelic  condition  every  week.  But, 
good-night,  good-night,  Mrs.  "Wentworth.  I  hope  you  may  not 
become  so  spiritual  as  quite  to  disdain  the  body.  I  really  think, 
for  this  world,  tlie  body  has  some  respectable  uses  yet.  Good-night, 
Rose.  The  angels  take  care  of  you,  if  there  is  one  of  them  good 
enough." 

And  so  the  judge  left. 

They  sat  silently  looking  at  the  sun,  now  but  just  above  the 
horizon.  A  few  scarfs  of  cloud,  brilliant  with  flame-color,  and 
every  moment  changing  forms,  seemed  like  winged  spirits,  half  re- 
vealed, that  hovered  round  the  retiring  orb. 


140  Norwood. 

Mrs.  Wentwortli  at  length  broke  the  silence. 

"  I  always  thought,  Doctor,  that  you  believed  Sunday  over* 
strictly  kept,  and  that  you  were  in  favor  of  relaxation." 

"  I  am.  Just  as  fast  as  you  can  make  it  a  day  of  real  religious 
enjoyment,  it  "wiU  relax  itself.  True  and  deep  spiritual  feeling  is 
the  freest  of  all  experiences.  And  it  reconciles  in  itself  the  most 
perfect  consciousness  of  liberty  with  the  most  thorough  observance 
of  outward  rules  and  proprieties.  Liberty  is  not  an  outward  con- 
dition. It  is  an  inward  attribute  or,  rather,  a  name  for  the  quality 
of  life  produced  by  the  highest  moral  attributes.  "When  communi- 
ties come  to  that  condition,  we  shall  see  fewer  laws  and  higher 
morality. 

"  The  one  great  poem  of  Xew  England  is  her  Sunday  !  Through 
that  she  has  escaped  materialism.  That  has  been  a  crystal  dome 
over  head,  through  which  Imagination  has  been  kept  alive.  Xew 
England's  imagination  is  to  be  found — not  in  art,  or  literature — ^but 
in  her  inventions,  her  social  organism,  and,  above  all,  in  her  relig- 
ious life.  The  Sabbath  has  been  the  nurse  of  that.  TThen  she 
ceases  to  have  a  Sunday,  she  will  be  as  this  landscape  is — ^now 
growing  dark,  all  its  lines  blurred,  its  distances  and  gradations  fast 
merging  into  sheeted  darkness  and  night. 

"  Come,  let  us  go  in !  " 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

GOIXG     TO     COLLEGE. 

Baeton  Cathcaet  was  brought  np  on  a  farm,  by  a  farmer,  with 
no  other  thought  than  that  he  would,  like  his  father,  live  by  steady 
and  hard  work.  Early  he  manifested  ambition,  but  it  developed 
in  the  line  of  h'is  duties.  Thoroughly  above  his  years,  industry 
and  fidelity  marked  him  from  childhood.  His  tenacity  of  pnrpose 
was  remarkable,  and  had  it  not  been  controlled  by  judgment,  in 
later  years  it  would  have  become  obstinacy. 

He  was  ambitions  of  doing  men's  work,  and,  at  ten  years  of 
age,  in  labor  that  required  tact  and  quickness  rather  than  strength, 
he  was  fully  as  serviceable  as  a  man.  He  was  eager  to  prove  him- 
self tough,  refused  in  the  coldest  winter  to  wear  an  overcoat,  re- 
joiced to  brave  storms,  and  regarded  the  reputation  of  being  a 
good  farmer  as  praise  enough. 

His  winters  were  given  to  schooling,  and  his  father's  example 
at  home  bred  in  him  a  love  of  reading.  When  he  was  abont  four- 
teen, there  began  to  rise  in  his  mind  dim  questionings  whether  he 
should  after  all  follow  husbandry.  The  books  which  he  had  read 
furnished  so  many  heroes  that  he  found  his  allegiance  to  hard  work 
somewhat  shaken.  Sometimes  he  dreamed  that  he  would  be  a 
merchant,  and  that  after  a  successful  life,  he  would  return  and 
build  in  his  native  village. 

Then  he  pondered  within  himself  whether  he  might  not  by 
study  become  a  lawyer.  His  mind  had  been  inflamed  with  ad- 
miration by  some  trials  that  had  gone  on  in  Xorwood,  aud  he 
caught  the  contagion  of  the  common  people,  who  look  upon  a 
smart  lawyer  as  one  of  the  most  enviable  of  men. 

But  all  these  dreams  were  as  nothing  to  the  influence  of  a 
single  qnestion  which  Eose  put  to  him  one  Sunday  evening  at  her 
father's : 

"  Barton,  don't  you  mean  to  go  to  college  ?  " 

"  Xo ;  I  never  really  thought  of  it.  What  makes  you  ask  me  ? " 

"  I  should  like  to  go  myself.  I  should  like  to  know  every  thing. 
# 


142  Norivood ;  or, 

But  women  don't  go  to  college.  If  I  were  a  man  I  should  cer- 
tainly go." 

"  What  would  you  do  then,  Rose?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  could  tell  better  afterwards.  l)on't  you  think 
that  you  would  like  to  be  a  minister,  Barton  ? " 

There  are  some  impressions  that  come  upon  us  with  the  force 
of  prophecies.  Barton  had  never  before  once  thought  of  a  college, 
except  as  a  vague  picture,  a  place  of  wonderful  men  who  knew  all 
manner  of  wonderful  things.  Like  a  true  Xew  England  boy,  he 
looked  with  admiration  upon  any  young  man  that  "had  been  to 
college."  Intelligence  and  morality  are  the  household  ideals  of 
New  England.  The  Amherst  College  buildings  he  had  seen  as  they 
glimmered  far  across  the  Connecticut  river  valley,  and  had  often 
vaguely  striven  in  imagination  to  picture  the  contents  of  those 
buildings,  very  much  as  old  crusaders  may  be  imagined  to  have 
wondered  at  Jerusalem  afar  off. 

These  few  words  of  Eose  had  struck  a  chord  which  never  ceased 
vibrating.  He  thought  of  it  all  the  way  home.  Every  day  he  found 
the  subject  intruding  upon  him.  Finally,  it  had  so  possessed  his 
feelings  that  his  farm  work  no  longer  seemed  his  chief  ambition, 
and  he  found  himself  following  his  tasks  with  less  spring  and 
pleasure  than  hitherto;  and  dangerous  signs,  even  of  vreariness 
and  impatience,  appeared. 

At  length  he  determined  to  break  his  thoughts  to  his  mother — 
confident  that,  though  she  might  repress  his  new  desires,  she  would 
yet  sympathize  with  his  ambition  to  rise  in  the  world.  Great  then 
was  his  surprise,  when,  one  evening,  he  made  a  full  disclosure  of  his 
thoughts,  to  find  that  Rachel  was  neither  astonished  nor  averse. 

It  was  an  evening  when  his  father  was  away  in  town,  and  the 
house  was  still.     Barton  said  to  his  mother  : 

"Mother,  do  you  think  I  ought  to  go  to  college ? " 

She  ;paused,  and  looked  fixedly  and  kindly  upon  her  son ;  she 
then  went  on  with  her  work  in  silence  for  many  minutes— so  many 
minutes  that  Barton  thought  it  an  hour,  though  it  -vras  not  a  quarter 
of  it.  He  sat  with  the  book  which  he  had  been  reading  on  his 
knee,  and  his  forefinger  in  it  for  a  mark,  looking  into  the  fire. 

What  other  picture-book  has  such  color,  such  infinite  novelty 
of  design,  such  suggestiveness  as  the  farmer's  picture-book  on  the 
andirons  ?     There  were  flames  shooting  up  like  spires  of  churches 


Villa(je  Life  in  New  En(jland.  143 

in  the  colors  of  sunset.  On^the  front  log  was  a  mimic  banting- 
scene.  Along  the  surface  ran  a  faint  line  of  blue  gas,  issuing  at 
little  intervals  from  cracks ;  and  this  seemed  like  rabbits  or  foxes. 
Then  from  the  end  of  the  log  a  flame  like  a  hound ;  it  leaped  over 
and  caught  the  gas,  and  raced  across  the  whole  front  and  disap- 
peared, as  if  around  a  corner.  Barton's  uneasy  thoughts  were  well 
nigh  as  fitful  and  fiery  as  the  flames  before  him.  He  glanced  at  bis 
mother.  She  was  excited  too.  Her  eye  was  bright,  a  color  was 
on  her  cheek,  her  hand  was  more  nervously  quick. 

Rachel  came,  at  length,  and  sat  down  by  him. 

"  Barton,  your  words  seem  to  me  like  an  opening  door.  On  one 
side  is  the  home,  and  purity  and  security ;  on  the  other  the  great 
and  wide  world,  full  of  all  manner  of  life  and  danger.  You  have 
always  seemed  to  me  as  one  that  would  remain  here.  But  already 
your  thoughts  have  gone ;  and  by  and  by  you  will  follow.  I  am 
willing.  Yet  the  day  you  leave  us  will  be  a  day  of  pangs  more 
than  when  you  were  born." 

"Mother,  I  will  not  go  if  you  wish  me  to  stay.  I  can  give 
it  up." 

"  "When  God  stirs  in  us  deep  thoughts  for  things  that  are  right, 
they  are  prophecies,  and  we  must  heed  them.  Should  I  keep  you 
back  and  hide  you  from  God's  decrees,  could  I  prevail  ?  If  we 
follow  duty  willingly,  we  are  treated  kindly;  but  if  we  resist, 
Duty  hunts  us  down  and  drags  us  to  answer  to  our  conscience." 

Then  both  were  silent.  Barton  was  looking  at  the  coals  under 
the  fore-log.  There  was  one  spot  that  seemed  making  signs  to 
him.  The  dull  yellow  red  of  the  coal  suddenly  glowed  with  white 
light  as  if  a  stream  of  air  had  fanned  it,  then  sunk  back  to  its  ruddy 
hue ;  it  glanced  out  white  and  radiant  again,  and  lost  the  glow  once 
more,  as  if  it  kept  sympathy  with  Barton's  thoughts,  that  rose  and 
sunk  by  turns. 

"  Oh,  my  son,  I  know  not  why  God  has  shaded  life  to  my  eyes. 
His  will  be  done !  Life  seems  so  deep,  so  awful  in  meaning,  and 
infinite — infinite  in  its  results.  It  is  like  an  ocean,  with  great 
storms  travelling  over  it  always,  and  many  enemies.  Yet  every 
one  must  venture.  If  I  were  sure  that  you  had  made  your  peace 
with  God " 

She  paused. 

The  fore-stick  broke  in  two,  and  showers  of  sparks  rushed  up 
7* 


144  Norwood ;  or, 

the  fireplace,  and  great  meaty  coals  rolled  down  upon  the  hearth^ 
while  the  whole  fire  seemed  to  ease  itself,  and  settled  down  into 
ne<v  positions,  as  if  a  restraint  had  been  removed. 

It  was  a  relief  to  both  of  them,  and  Barton  put  a  new  fore- 
stick  in  place,  laid  back  the  brands,  and  with  the  tongs  raked  the 
great  bed  of  coals  right  and  left  under  the  logs,  as  if  to  clear  out 
its  throat  and  give  the  fire  breathing-room. 

"  But,  my  son,  have  you  thought  whether  you  wiU  be  able  to 
succeed  ? " 

"  Mother,  I  have  not  spoken  a  word  to  father  about  it." 

"  I  did  not  mean  that.  Should  your  father  consent  ?  Yoii  are 
not  yet  fifteen.  You  have  learned  only  the  common  branches  of 
an  English  education.  It  is  two  miles  to  the  Academy.  You  will 
have  to  study  at  least  two  years  before  you  can  enter  coUege.  K 
your  father  should  give  you  your  time  and  help  you  besides,  he 
would  expect  you  to  help  yourself.  You  know  his  mind.  If  he 
had  ever  so  much  money,  he  would  not  give  it  to  you.  He  thinks 
that  the  earning  is  a  moral  preservation.  It  will  require  patience 
and  courage  to  get  an  education." 

"I  have  patience  and  courage,"  said  Barton,  quietly.  "Did 
you  ever  know  me  give  up  any  thing  that  I  had  undertaken  ?  Did 
not  father  say  that  he  didn't  believe  any  body  else  would  ever  have 
got  down  that  wood,  on  the  mountain-lot,  in  the  deep  snow,  that 
I  did  ?  But  he  never  knew  half  that  I  went  through.  Didn't  I 
finish  that  piece  of  waU  that  father  said  nobody  could  do  in  two 
days  ?  But  you  didn't  know,  nor  he  either,  that  I  went  out  after 
you  were  abed,  and  worked  all  night,  by  the  moon.  It. was  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning  when  I  quit.  There's  something  in  me 
that  won't  let  go  when  I  take  hold  in  earnest.    I  can't  help  it !  " 

"  But  an  education  is  only  a  beginning,  what  do  you  mean  to 
do  afterwards?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  If  a  man  is  well  educated,  I  guess  he  can  do 
pretty  much  as  he  pleases.    May  be  I'll  be  a  lawyer  or  a  minister." 

"  Or  a  doctor,  Barton  ?  " 

He  was  silent.  The  fire  had  lost  much  of  its  zeal,  and  lay  like 
a  rich  community,  with  great  banks  of  hot  coals ;  while,  here  and 
there,  a  brand  that  had  fallen  the  wrong  way,  like  a  disappointed 
man  in  society,  lay  smoking, — white  on  the  outside  with  ashes, 
and  black  with  charcoal  within. 


Village  Life  in  New  Enc/land.  145 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  sounds  in  the  yard. 
Barton  started  up  for  the  lantern,  and  sprang  out  to  relievo  hia 
father  of  the  horse,  which  he  always  put  up  of  himself,  unless  re- 
lieved by  some  such  proffered  service  of  his  children. 

It  was  some  days  before  the  subject  was  resumed  in  the  family ; 
and  then  'Biah  Cathcart  introduced  it. 

"  Barton,  your  mother  says  you  want  to  go  to  college.  I  have 
no  objection,  if  you  think  you  are  smart  enough.  You  cannot 
enter  college  without  examination.  My  farm  is  as  honorable  in  its 
way  as  a  college.  I  sha'n't  let  any  one  brought  up  here  leave  it 
without  standing  an  examination.  K  you  choose  to  learn  survey- 
ing and  will  give  me  a  plot  of  my  farm  and  a  map  of  this  district, 
I'll  give  you  your  time.  It  won't  do  for  a  farmer's  boy  to  go  to 
college,  and  not  to  know  more  about  land  than  if  he  came  from  a 
city." 

His  fother  said  nothing  to  him  of  books,  and  nothing  of  a 
teacher.  Barton  was  too  proud  to  ask  any  help — at  any  rate  at 
home.  He  knew  his  father's  notions,  and  he  knew  that  he  was 
expected  to  find  out  his  own  way,  and  to  master  the  art  and  mys- 
tery of  surveying  by  his  own  wit  and  ingenuity. 
He  said  to  himself: 

"TThere  shall  I  begin?  Well— I  must  find  that  out  myself. 
How  shall  I  find  it  out  ?  What  book  will  tell  me  ?  I  suppose  I've 
got  that  to  find  out  too.  If  there  is  no  book,  then  I  must  get 
somebody  to  tell  me,  and  I  xf^ill  too,  or  I'll  know  the  reason  why." 
Barton's  first  step  was  to  explore  his  father's  library.  Among 
the  several  hundred  volumes  he  remembered  vaguely  to  have  seen 
a  book  with  land  surveying  in  it.  But  whether  the  art  of  survey- 
ing was  large  and  difficult,  or  simple  and  easy,  he  could  not  tell. 
Accordingly  he  examined  every  book  m  his  father's  book-casea. 
Here  were  Scott's  and  Henry's  Commentaries  on  the  Scriptures. 
Here  were  a  few  law  books.  There  were  histories,  ancient  and 
modern,  sacred  and  profane.  A  very  good  selection  of  English 
classics,  and  a  few  translations  of  the  ancients.  There  was  a  good 
row  of  voyages,  travels  and  biographies.  The  largest  number  of 
books  was  in  the  department  of  Natural  History  and  in  the  art 
and  science  of  farming,  on  which  his  father's  reading  had  been 
extensive.  There  was  also  Rees'  Cyclopa3dia,  and  a  few  of  Scott's 
and  Cooper's  novels ;  but  no  book  on  surveying. 


146  NGrivood.' 

"  Was  there  not  one  ?  Had  it  been  removed  purposely  ?  Was 
it  loaned  ?  I  don't  care — there  are  books  somewhere^  and  I'll  find 
out  where." 

Old  'Biah  knew  what  was  going  on,  but  never  spoke  a  word. 
"  We  are  apt  to  put  too  many  blades  in  our  knives,  now-a-days," 
said  he.  "I  had  rather  give  the  boy  a  handle,  and  let  him  put  in 
his  own  blade.  There  is  nothing  like  working  out  a  thing  your- 
self. Lead  is  as  good  as  steel  when  the  knife  is  in  your  pocket. 
Put  it  to  hard  work  and  see  which  keeps  its  edge — that  tells  the 
difference  between  good  temper  and  none  at  all." 

"When  they  were  working  in  the  field,  if  his  boys  asked  him  a 
question  that  came  within  their  own  powers  of  investigation,  he 
would  say — "  A  man  should  be  ashamed  to  ask  questions  of  others 
that  he  can  answer  himself.  What  was  your  head  given  for  but  to 
use?"  In  this  way  his  children  were  early  inclined  to  observe 
and  study  for  themselves. 

But  once,  when  Barton  had  been  to  Springfield,  and  returned 
by  a  different  route,  having  to  visit  several  outlying  neighbors  on 
business,  he  lost  his  way,  and  was  detained  a  night.  His  father 
would  not  take  the  excuse. 

"K  a  man  has  got  a  tongue  in  his  head  there  is  no  need  of 
missing  his  way  in  a  populous  country.     Ask  questions !  " 

A  spirit  of  independence  could  scarcely  fail  to  grow  up  under 
such  influences,  and  when,  through  inexperience,  it  tended  to  ex- 
tremes, old  Cathcart  would  say  :  "He  is  independent  who  troubles 
people  the  least,  and  helps  them  the  most.  iRever  let  any  body 
carry  you  or  your  burdens  if  you  can  help  it.  But  always  be 
ready  to  carry  other  people's,  if  they  need  it." 

After  a  vain  search,  Barton  seemed  baffled.  At  last,  a  happy 
thought  struck  him. 

"  I'll  ask  Tommy  Taft ;  he's  an  old  sailor  and  has  studied  navi- 
gation ;  maybe  surveying  and  navigation  are  enough  alike  for  him 
to  help  me." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

CONSULTATIONS. 

The  next  night,  not  long  after  dark,  a  knock  was  heard  at 
Tommy  Taft's  shop-door.  Tommy  was  sitting  in  his  rough  old 
chair,  that  seemed  to  have  been  once  "a  part  of  a  pork-barrel.  The 
front  had  been  sawed  away  half-way  down,  leaving  the  rest  of  the 
staves  for  a  back ;  and  a  seat  was  laid  across  the  open  part ;  and 
the  whole  was  covered  with  some  cheap  stuff,  so  that  it  answered 
the  purpose  of  luxury  far  better  than  do  most  of  the  chairs  which 
seem  designed  to  make  visitors  so  uncomfortable  that  their  calls 
shall  be  short. 

"  Who's  there?— .come  in!"  roared  out  Tommy,  laying  down 
his  pipe. 

But  several  reasons  precluded  obedience  to  the  vociferous  com- 
mand which  he  repeated.  In  the  first  place,  the  door  below  was 
fastened ;  and,  in  the  next  place,  had  Barton  made  good  his  en- 
trance, his  way  among  barrels  and  benches,  shavings  and  timber, 
was  not  like  to  be  smooth  or  easy. 

Mother  Taft  lit  a  candle,  saying,  with  a  woman's  and  a  nurse's 
apprehension : 

"I  am  afraid  Ma'am  Whipple's  child  is  worse.  They  were  to 
send  if  they  needed  me." 

The  stairs  came  down  into  the  corner  of  the  shop.  Loosening 
the  rude  wooden  bolt,  she  opened  the  door. 

"Why,  Barton  Cathcart,  of  all  things  in  the  world!  What  is 
the  matter  ?  Is  your  mother  sick  ?  Is  any  thing  the  matter  at 
home  ? "  • 

"  Nothing,  Mother  Taft,"  said  he,  hastening  to  relieve  her 
honest  anxiety.  "  I  only  came  down  to  see  Tommy  about  some 
business." 

By  this  time  Tommy's  wooden  leg  was  busy  up  stairs,  pound- 
ing and  slapping,  at  each  step,  as  he  made  toward  the  head  of  the 
stairs.  Each  step  shook  every  board  in  the  floor,  as  if  a  flail  or 
rather  trip-hammer,  were  at  work  on  a  wager. 

As  Barton  came  in  sight,  Tommy  seemed  enraptured.^ 


148  Norwood ;  or, 

"  "Why,  boy, — why,  lad,  come  up  here  !  Let  me  get  my  liandg 
on  yoii — that's  all!  Come  up  here,  my  chap,  if  you  dare, — just 
come  up  here  !  " 

And  no  sooner  was  the  act  done  than  Tommy  seized  him  in 
his  arms,  as  if  he  had  been  a  pet  dog ;  and  shook  him,  and  laugh- 
ed at  him,  and  toddled  him  off  towards  the  fire,  rubbing  his 
shoulders,  as  if  he  were  rolling  out  a  piece  of  pie-crust. 

"  Why,  where  did  you  come  from  ?  What's  the  matter  ?  What 
do  you  want,  my  hearty  ?  Any  mischief  up,  eh  ?  Any  thing  broke  ? 
Any  thing  smashed?  What  is  it,  I  say;  what's  the  matter  ?  "  And 
without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  plumped  Barton  into  his  own 
barrel  seat,  with  an  emphasis  which  threatened  to  carry  them  both 
over  upon  the  floor,  and  quite  overthrew  Uncle  Tommy's  familiar, 
in  the  shape  of  a  huge,  yellow,  crop-ear  cat,  that  sat  dozing  by  the 
fire.  "  Clap  on  some  more  stuff,  woman.  Let's  have  more  fire. 
Nights  are  nights,  now,  d'ye  know !  Skates  broke,  eh  ? — '^o  ? — 
Gun  out  of  order  ?  Traps  gone  ?— Xo  ?— Well,  what  is  it  ?  Didn't 
come  from  Parson  Buell,  did  ye  ?  Had  my  dose  last  week.  Good 
man.  Looks  after  the  old  sinner.  He  needs  it.  Have  to  keep 
tryin'  the  pumps.  Some  day,  afore  you  know  it,  he'll  founder. 
IlTo  hope.  Bad  business.  Wicked  old  sinner.  But  what  have 
you  come  for,  I  tell  you  ?  " 

"Why,"  said  Barton,  laughing,  "if  you'll  keep  still  long 
enough  for  me  to  speak,  Tommy,  I'll  tell  you." 

"  Sartiu,  sartin.  I  don't  want  to  talk — go  on.  Somethin's  the 
matter,  I  know.  Come  down  to-night.  No,  no — ^not  for  uothin'. 
I  know.  Come,  jest  tell  us  what  it  is ;  and  don't  keep  an  old  fel- 
low with  his  anchor  neither  up  or  down.  But,  boys  will  be  boys," 
said  Tommy,  giving  Barton  an  affectionate  slap  on  his  knee. 

"Well,"  said  Barton,  striking  in  resolutely,  as  one  who  means 
to  make  his  way  in  a  crowd,  "  I  want  to  find  out  something,  and 
I  don't  know  who  to  go  to,  Tommy ;  and  I  thought  perhaps  you 
would  know." 

"  Of  course  I  know.  What's  an  old  sailor  good  for  but  to  know 
al.  the  odds  and  ends,  and  crinkum-crankums  for  young  folks  ? 
The  only  jolly  folks  in  this  world  are  young  folks  that  ain't  good 
for  nothin'  yet,  and  old  folks  that^s  past  doin'  much.  All  the  rest 
of  the  world  are  livin'  in  a  pucker  and  a  fume  all  the  time.  I  tell 
you,  Barton,  I'm  the  only  sensible  man  in  this  town.     Did  ye  ever 


Village  Life  in  New  Eiifjland.  149 

see  such  a  stewin'  and  brewin'  as  goes  on  for  notliin'  among  these 
folks,  that  are  rubbin'  and  grindin'  rountl  to  make  money,  and 
then  usm'  it  to  make  more  money,  and  that  to  make  more,  and 
haven't  time  to  stop  and  enjoy  it  a  little!  " 

There  is  no  telling  to  what  lengths  of  discourse  Tommy  would 
have  gone,  for  he  seemed  in  peculiarly  good  spirits  to-night,  at 
Barton's  visit.     Barton  was  one  of  Tommy's  prime  favorites. 

But  the  old  fellow  was  a  good  deal  puzzled  when  the  errand 
came  out. 

"  Tommy,  I  want  to  learn  something  about  surveying.  I'm 
going  to  college." 

"  Thunder  and  lightnin' !  Goin'  to  college  ?  Make  a  map  to 
find  your  way  from  here  to  Amherst,  eh  ?  " 

"Father  is  so  'fraid  that  his  children  will  depend  on  somebody 
for  something,  that  he  never  acts  as  other  folks  do.  He  wants  me 
to  show  that  I  am  in  earnest,  and  he  in  a  sort  puts  me  on  a  stent; 
and  so  I've  got  to  learn  something  about  surveying,  to  let  him  see 
that  I've  got  spunk  enough  to  study ;  and  I  Avon't  ask  father  any 
thing  about  it,"  said  Barton,  laughing,  "  not  if  I  have  to  invent 
surveying  all  over  again.  Isow  I  thought  that  as  you  knew  about 
navigation,  you  could  perhaps  tell  me  enough  about  surveying  to 
give  me  a  start.     But  don't  tell  father." 

"Well,  if  that  ain't  the  beat  all!  I  never  'spected  to  be  a 
schoolmaster,  and  have  folks  cum  to  me  for  larnin'.  Why, 
Barton,  I  don't  know  nothin'  about  it.  IsTavigation,  boy,  I  guess 
is  a  sort  of  a  surveyin'  bottom  side  up.  I  mean  that  it  is  studyin' 
out  the  stars  and  findin'  out  where  you  are.  But,  Lord  bless  you, 
that  won't  help  you  on  dry  land,  and  if 't  would,  I  couldn't  help 
you.  Why  don't  you  just  go  over  to  Edwards?  They  say  he's 
big  on  mathematics." 

"  That's  a  good  idea,"  said  Barton.  "  I  wonder  I  never  thought 
of  that.  Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  I  know  that  he  has  surveyed 
a  good  deal.  He  was  out  a  while  when  they  were  running  the 
lines  for  the  railroad," 

Tommy  had  been  pulling  away  at  a  bag  in  a  closet,  and  now 
brought  out  some  hickory  nuts,  and  was  proceeding  to  fill  a  tin 
pan  with  them,  when  Barton  cut  short  his  hospitable  intent.  Go 
he  must.  His  errand  must  be  speedily  performed.  The  night  was 
wearing,  and  it  would  not  do  to  be  late. 


150  Norwood ;  or, 

'•'■  But  -why  on  akth  don't  you  ask  your  father,  Barton  ?  I  guess 
he  could  tell  you  as  well  as  any  body." 

"  You  know  my  father,  Tommy.  He's  queer  about  some  things 
He's  always  stirring  us  up  to  find  out  things.  He  seems  set  not  to 
tell  us  any  thing  that  we  can  dig  out  ourselves." 

"  That's  the  old  man  all  over.  But  good  for  you — good  for 
you — make  you  smart — wake  you  up — keep  you  sharp." 

"  He  wouldn't  tell  me  the  name  of  a  flower,  but  made  me  hunt 
it  down  in  a  Botany.  He  wouldn't  tell  me  why  the  moss  grew  on 
one  side  of  a  tree  more  than  on  the  other,  but  set  me  to  find  out. 
If  I  were  to  ask  him  about  surveying  he  would  say, — What  have 
you  done  yourself  to  find  out  ?  As  soon  as  he  sees  that  I  am  in 
earnest,  and  have  tried  to  help  myself,  he'll  help  me." 

"  And  is  he  as  strict  with  Alice?  "  asked  Mother  Taft,  who  had 
listened  silently  to  the  conversation. 

"  Yes — but  rather  softer.  But  she  has  to  hunt  the  dictionary 
for  her  words,  and  he  won't  let  her  read  a  sentence  that  contains 
a  place  or  river,  or  custom,  that  he  don't  question  her ;  and  if  she 
don't  know,  he  expects  her  to  find  out,  and  to  find  out,  too,  how 
to  find  out." 

'•  And  how  does  Alice  like  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she's  smart,  to  father's  heart's  content.  She  has  got  so 
keen  that  you  can't  catch  her  very  easy.  You  see  that's  a  habit 
that  grows  on  one.  And  after  a  while  it  is  just  as  easy,  and  a 
little  easier,  to  find  out  your  own  things  as  to  be  depending  on 
other  people  to  find  them  out  for  you.  But  I  must  be  ofi".  Much 
obliged  for  your  nuts.  I'll  put  some  in  my  pocket.  What  big 
ones ! — splendid !  You  always  know  where  the  best  trees  are, 
Tommy." 

"Xo,  that's  Pete's  work.  Pete  knows  every  nut,  and  every 
squkrel,  and  every  berry  that  grows  in  these  parts.  You  see  my 
leg  does  very  well  to  walk  with ;  a  little  noisy,  perhaps,  especially 
when  you  are  late  to  meetin'  and  wal^i  up  the  aisle  in  prayer  time ; 
but  it's  no  use  on  a  chestnut  tree.  A  wooden  leg  is  a  good  thing 
though,  Barton  ;  never  have  to  cut  my  toe-nails  on  that  leg,"  said 
Tommy,  with  a  chuckle.  "  Not  much  paid  out  for  shoes  neither. 
Go  to  a  blacksmith  for  my  shoes — ho !  ho  !  ho  !  Never  have  rheu- 
matism in  that  leg  neither.  Don't  catch  cold  when  I  git  it  wet. 
Toes  never  cold  on  that  leg — he !  he !  he !  No  corns.   Nobody  steps 


Villa(/e  Life  in  New  England.  15 1 

on  my  toes.  Don't  cost  much  for  blackin'.  It's  a  real  convenience. 
Sometimes  I  think  legs  "\A'ere  a  mistake  ;  ain't  "worth  as  much  as  it 
costs  to  keep  'em  up." 

"I  suppose,  then,  you  regret  having  one  well  leg,  Tommy? " 

"Of  course  I  do.  Often  think  of  havin'  it  taken  off.  Very 
odd,  ,you  see,  to  liave  one  flesh  leg  and  one  wooden  leg.  Feller 
don't  like  to  be  odd,  ye  know,"  said  Tommy,  winking  at  Barton,  as 
if  to  save  him  from  taking  the  speech  literally.  "  So  queer,  yoi 
know,  to  wake  up  in  the  niglit  and  turn  over  just  one  leg  !  Then 
my  old  smasher  makes  such  a  noise  that  every  body  looks  at  that 
one,  and  I  do  believe  my  real  leg  gits  jealous  of  the  attention  that's 
paid  to  the  wooden  one.  The  fact  is,  that  wooden  feller  hasn't  got 
much  manners,  l^ever  could  keep  him  still,  and  it's  the  worst  leg 
to  have  treadin'  on  your  toes  that  ever  you  saw." 

As  Tommy  Taft  thus  ran  on,  his  eye  seemed  to  linger  fondly 
upon  Barton,  and  his  rough  voice  grew  less  turbulent.  All  at 
once,  turning  to  him,  in  a  manner  entirely  changed,  and  full  of 
rude  tenderness,  he  said,  in  a  simple  way : 

"And  so.  Barton,  you  really  are  going  to  college.  Well,  I 
didn't  think  it.  You're  going  to'  college,  and  I  shan't  see  you 
much  more,  my  boy." 

His  manner  was  so  new,  and  there  was  sucli  a  sort  of  helpless- 
ness in  his  way,  that  Barton  was  affected  by  it,  and  said : 

"  Why,  Tommy,  I  shan't  go  this  two  years,  and  I  shall  be  home 
every  vacation,  you  know.  It  is  only  a  few  miles  to  Amherst, 
any  how." 

"  It's  all  right.  If  a  boy's  got  any  thing  particular  in  him,  it'll 
certainly  git  out,  somehow,  and  it  ain't  much  use  to  try  to  stop  it. 
If  you  do,  it'll  only  twist  it  and  twirl  it,  like  a  seed  with  a  board 
on  it,  that  will  come  up  and  creep  out  sideways,  and  gits  up '  in 
spite  of  hindrance,  only  with  a  cruel  crooked  stem.  I  might  'a 
made  a  smart  man  once,  but  they  meddled  with  me,  and  I  was 
fierce— well,  no  matter.  Old  Tommy  missed  it.  But  you  won't. 
You'll  be  all  right.  Barton,  boy !  On  the  hull,  I'm  glad  of  it. 
Folks  that  stay  to  hum  are  like  coasters — sloops  and  schooners 
like,  that  run  along  shore  and  do  apeddlin'  business  in  shoal  water. 
Folks  that  go  to  college  are  square  rigged.  They  can  make  long 
voyages,  carry  big  freights,  go  round  the  world  if  they're  mind 
to." 


152  Norwood ;  or. 

Tommy  seemed  likely  to  spend  tlie  night  in  talking,  and  Barton 
abruptly  bid  Mother  Taft  good-night,  and  climbed  down  stairs, 
■while  Tommy  from  the  top  was  still  adding  some  further  remarks. 

Mr.  Edwards  received  Barton  with  a  calm  and  dignified  wel- 
come, and  expressed  no  surprise.  He  acted  as  one  must  who  for 
forty  years  had  been  used  to  having  boys  come  to  him  for  every 
thing.  He  had  been  a  schoolmaster  all  his  life.  Under  his  care 
the  academy  had  earned  a  high  position.  The  young  men  who 
fitted  for  college  there  were  uniformly  remarked  for  their  thorough 
scholarship  and  industrious  habits. 

Mr.  Edwards  was  tall,  thin,  with  a  large  gray  eye,  which  was 
mild  and  gentle  in  repose,  but  kindled  like  an  eagle's  under  excite- 
ment ;  his  face  was  white ;  his  hair  remained  thick  only  around 
the  sides  of  his  head,  while  upon  the  top  it  was  very  thin,  and 
every  where  gray.  His  habitual  sobriety  was  underlaid  with  a 
genuine  relish  of  humor,  which  seldom  brought  out  a  laugh, 
sometimes  a  smile,  but  usually  only  a  lighting  up  of  his  whole 
face,  and  a  look  of  good  nature  even  kinder  than  usual.  His  long 
teaching  had  earned  him  a  small  property,  which  enabled  him 
now  to  live  in  the  inexpensive  way  which  best  pleased  him.  He 
had  been  once  married,  but  early  lost  his  wife,  and  never  again 
thought  of  marrying.  His  whole  life  was  her  monument.  And 
his  love,  never  spoken,  but  never,  after  years  and  years,  less  tender, 
and  fresh,  and  romantic,  than  in  the  days  of  his  youth,  burned  like 
a  lamp  in  some  obscure  chapel,  fed  by  pious  hands,  unseen  by  day 
to  the .  passers  by,  but  'in  darkness  and  secrecy  forever  shining 
before  the  shrine  of  Love ! 

A  widowed  sister  was  the  only  companion  of  his  house.  Her 
hands  performed  the  whole  labor  of  the  household.  Like  her 
brother,  she  was  intelligent ;  but,  like  him,  she  was  not  fond  of 
talking.  He  conversed  freely  when  solicited,  but  never  offered 
conversation.  And,  when  he  did  speak,  there  was  something 
slightly  formal, — it  was  not  pedantic,  but  measured,  as  if  he  were 
translating  the  sentences  from  another  language  into  his  mother 
tongue.  Brother  and  sister  were  deeply  attached  to  each  other, 
but  would  no  more  think  of  expressing  it  than  two  roses,  on  the 
same  stem,  would  make  love  in  any  way  except  by  glowing  in  the 
same  light,  carrying  the  same  dew,  and  shaking  to  the  same  wind. 

Every  night,  when  the  tea  things  were  removed,  the  curtain 


Village  Life  in  Neio  En  (/land.  153 

dropped,  the  fire  trimmed  (and  he  was  especially  fond  of  a  fire  of 
hickorj  wood,  the  almost  only  luxury  that  he  would  have,  regard- 
less of  expense),  he  took  his  book  and  she  her  work,  and  he  would 
read  aloud.  Sometimes,  when  exciting  events  were  abroad,  it 
would  be  a  newspaper;  at  other  times  the  magazine.  But,  what- 
ever he  read,  she  heard ;  and  thus  they  kept  along  together,  in 
the  same  house,  with  the  same  pleasures,  and  in  the  silent  enjoy- 
ment of  the  same  ideas.  Sometimes  he  would  pause  in  reading, 
and  for  a  moment  comment,  or  criticise,  or  unfold  his  knowledge 
— which  was  ample — upon  some  obscure  point.  But,  nsually, 
little  was  said,  even  in  long  pauses,  both  reflecting  in  silence. 

There  is  something  very  wonderful  in  the  fruitfulness  of 
silence !  Congenial  natures  may  learn  almost  to  forego  speech, 
and  yet  maintain  intimate  sympathy  and  knowledge  of  each  other. 
There  grow  up,  insensibly,  an  instinct  and  an  intuition  in  the  eye, 
in  the  ear,  and  in  every  sense,  which  finely  divide  up  and  dis- 
tribute the  usual  functions  of  a  noisy  tongue. 

In  the  morning  she  knocked  at  his  door  and  said,  "Dwight, 
breakfast  waits."  They  sat  silent  during  the  meal.  After  morn- 
ing prayers  he  made  his  record  of  the  weather,  of  which  he  was  a 
well-instructed  scribe,  performed  some  light  task  in  his  study — 
for  he  still  kept  up  a  student's  habit — and  read  his  classic  author?, 
pen  in  hand,  making  in  his  journal  such  criticisms  as  occurred ;  or 
pursued  mathematical  studies,  of  which  he  had  always  been  even 
more  fond  than  of  the  languages.  The  dinner  came  every  day  at 
the  good  old  hour  of  twelve,  and  passed  silently.  The  afternoon 
was  given  to  his  garden  and  yard  in  summer,  and  to  various  quiet 
exercises,  walks,  and  errands,  in  winter.  The  evening  was  for 
home  and  reading.  There  was  no  Sunday  there.  Every  day  was 
Sunday. 

Except  a  slight  difference  on  washing  andr  ironing  days,  you 
might  call  every  day  of  the  week  a  Sabbath,  so  alike  were  they — 
all  silent,  meditative,  and  tranquil.  Twice  as  much  was  going  on 
up  in  the  great  elm  trees  which  overshadowed  the  dwelling  as 
within  the  house.  Twice  as  much  noise  and  racket  did  birds  and 
crickets  make  in  the  garden,  in  summer,  as  ever  was  heard  within 
the  mansion.  Their  lives  were  as  nearly  spiritual  as  can  be  con- 
ceived. It  is  true  that  both  of  them  had  bodies,  but  they  were 
subordinated  to  the  mind's  uses  so  utterly  that  they  seemed  to  dry 


154  Norwood ;  or, 

np  and  turn  white,  as  if  tliey  despaired  of  their  rights  as  fleshly 
bodies  and  were  getting  ready  to  take  on  r.  spiritual  state,  in.  sheer 
despair. 

"Come  in,  Barton!  sit  down.  What  brings  you  to  town  so 
late  ?     No  ill  news,  I  trust  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  but  some  business  with  you,  is  the  matter.  I  wanted 
to  talk  with  you — about  surveying — and  about  going  to  college." 

"Why,  Barton,  are  you  going  to  leave  the  farm?  I  thought 
you  were  to  be  the  great  farmer  of  this  neighborhood  ?  What  will 
your  father  say? " 

"He  is  willing — at  any  rate,  he  has  giv'-en  consent." 

"  What  put  it  into  your  head !  The  la:st  time  I  talked  with  you, 
you  were  bent  upon  husbandry.  It  was  to  be  a  stock-farm, — 
grass,  grain,  cattle, — the  finest  grass,  the  plumpest  grain, — the 
choicest  stock, — mountain  pastures, — great  barns !  All  these  are 
fled  ?     Some  new  ambition  ?  " 

Barton  did  not  acknowledge  to  himself  the  germ  and  spring  of 
all  these  plans.  He,  perhaps,  would  have  honestly  denied  their 
origin.  So  subtle  are  the  influences  that  begin  afar  off  to  act  upon 
us,  that  the  condition  and  direction  of  our  feelings  are  changed 
before  we  notice  that  we  are  acted  upon.  Only  the  last  stages  of 
mental  processes,  and  especially  emotive  changes,  become  obvi- 
ous. Many  men  see  the  growth  of  trees  only  when  leaves  are  un- 
folded ;  but  some  notice  the  swelling  of  the  bud.  Yet  more  sen- 
sitive observers,  before  a  bud  swells,  know  by  the  purpling  of  the 
twigs  and  branches  that  a  change  has  begun.  But  long  before  the 
ruddy  color  came,  there  was  a  stir  within,  and  the  march  from 
winter  to  summer  had  begun.  Barton  knew  that,  his  plans  of  life 
were  changed ;  but  he  did  not  go  back  to  the  real  beginning  to 
notice  the  silent  impression  made  by  Rose ;  nor  did  he  even  admit 
himself  that  Eose  had  any  important  influence  upon  his  life  or 
thoughts.  That  she  was  his  sister  Alice's  very  twin  sister,  as  it 
were,  he  knew,  and  he  called  her  Ms  sister  too. 

Sister!  sister! — that  is  a  sweet  word,  but  exceedingly  mis- 
chievous, too,  in  the  realm  of  love !  It  is  a  word  for  devout  en- 
thusiasm, for  unselfish  love,  for  unblushing  friendship,  for  faithful- 
ness and  honest  intimacy,  for  friendship  without  passion,  for  love 
without  sultry  ardors.  Brother  and  sister!  That  is  the  most 
simple  and  beautiful  confluence  of  the  sexes ! 


Village  Life  in  Neio  Encjland.  155 

But  that  word  suUr  is  the  covered  way  of  love!  It  is  the 
mask  which  baslifulness  wears  before  it  gains  boldness  enough  to 
sav  love.  It  is  a  gentle  hypocrisy,  under  which  souls  consent  to 
remain  and  dreara,  in  hope  by-and-by  of  a  rapturous  waking !  It 
is  the  half-way  house  between  friendship  and  ardent  affection. 
It  is  a  neutral  ground,  on  which  men  and  women  agree  to  commit 
no  offensive  action,  and  where  both  parties  make  haste  to  break 
the  agreement.  Under  the  names  brother  and  sister  how  fast  in- 
timacies grow  1  What  bold  words  are  spoken !  What  deep  glances 
are  exchanged !  Love  is  war.  The  friendship  of  a  brother  and 
sister,  unrelated,  is  a  truce,  in  which  both  parties  are  secretly  pre- 
paring for  the  onset  and  victory. 

First  comes  acquaintance— that  is  May  ;  then  friendship — that 
is  June ;  then  brother  and  sisterhood — that  is  July ;  and  then  love, 
which  is  August;  but  July  and  August  are  so  much  alike  that  no 
one  can  tell  when  one  stops  and  the  other  begins ! 

Barton  unfolded  to  Mr.  Edwards,  briefly,  his  ambition  to  sur- 
prise his  father,  and  received  from  him  suitable  information,  the 
loan  of  necessary  books,  the  invitation  to  come  once  or  twice  a 
week  for  recitation,  and  the  promise  that  as  soon  as  the  season 
opened,  Mr.  Edwards  would  go  out  with  him  and  give  him  prac- 
tical lessons  in  the  field. 

The  next  Sunday  found  Barton,  during  the  intermission  of  ser- 
vice, at  Dr.  Wentworth's.     ISTothing  of  his  week's  work  did  he^ 
speak.     He  had  a  natural  delicacy  of  pride,  and  seldorn  spoke  of 
himself— never  of  his  inward  feelings,  save  to  his  mother. 

Eose  did  not  question  him.  She  walked  with  him  into  the 
green-house  and  stood  among  the  plants,  speaking  of  common 
things. 

She  instinctively  knew  that  something  had  happened  to  Barton. 
His  way  was  different.  His  carriage  was  different.  She  merely 
noticed  it,  and  did  not  inquire  or  even  reflect  upon  it.  Yet  Bar- 
ton knew  that  she  knew  something  ailed  him,  for  she  uncon- 
sciously looked  at  him  with  that  gaze  of  her  father's,  as  if  she  saw 
something  opening  up  before  her  in  his  own  heart.  It  was  her 
rare  sensitiveness  to  truth,  which  was  peculiarly  displayed  toward 
N'ature,  but  was  as  real,  though  less  manifested;  toward  society, 
that  gave  to  Rose  an  almost  unerring  insight  of  peoples'  dispo- 
sitions. 


156  Norwood ;  or. 

By  her  original  constitution  Eose  -was  exquisitely  susceptible 
of  impressions,  and  her  father's  training  had  educated  this  ten- 
dency, so  that  she  saw  infinitely  more,  in  looking  upon  the  same 
things,  than  others  did;  heard  and  discriminated  far  more  of  the 
memorable  sounds  which  fill  the  day,  than  did  her  companions. 
This  world  is  not  the  same  world  to  any  two  persons  in  it.  But 
between  the  lowest  human  organization  and  the  highest,  the  dif- 
ference is  so  wide,  that  the  world  which  each  sees  would  not  be 
recognized  by  the  other.  The  thermometer  and  barometer  are 
the  perpetual  witness  of  men's  coarse  and  sensitive  natures.  They 
say  to  us  every  hour,  "See  what  world-aflfecting  changes  are  go- 
ing on,  which  you  are  not  fine' enough  to  notice,  but  which  w€ 
feel  and  indicate." 

But  the  sphere  of  effects  not  perceived,  in  human  life,  is  even 
greater  than  in  the  natural  world.  Every  feeling  which  rises  in 
the  soul  has  its  own  signal  in  the  body.  If  our  eyes  were  fine 
enough,  if  our  minds  were  sensitive  enough,  we  should  see  the 
face  and  carriage  of  men  going  through  endless  variations,  as  the 
soul  moves  through  all  its  aflfluent  moods,  l^ow  we  see  only  the 
extreme  manifestations.  Fear,  rage,  hate,  love,  mirth,  are  discern- 
ible at  their  full  tides.  Finer  natures  perceive  their  remote  con- 
ditions, their  subtle  influences ;  but  it  is  a  feeling,  a  mere  blind  con- 
sciousness of  change,  or  difference,  rather  than  a  defined  perception. 

Eose  had  to  a  singular  degree  this  fine  and  ineffable  sympathy 
with  matter  and  with  mind.  She  had  it  without  being  conscious 
of  it.  She  was  not  aware  that  she  lived  far  deeper  Into  life  than 
others  did.  Of  all  things  that  lived  about  her,  herself  was  almost 
the  only  one  which  she  did  not  take  cognizance  of. 

She  judged  that  Barton  had  something  to  say  to  her,  and  so 
she  had  naturally  gone  to  the  green-house.  He  said  nothing  to 
her,  except  of  the  plants,  of  the  decline  of  the  season,  and  so  she 
felt  that  it  was  something  not  to  be  told.  To  know  that  one  has  a 
secret  is  to  know  half  the  secret  itself. 

"When  the  afternoon  service  was  done,  Mr.  Edwards  walked  on 
with  Eose  and  her  father  and  mother,  on  the  way  to  his  own  house 
beyond. 

"  And  so  'Biah  Cathcart  is  going  to  send  his  son  to  college." 

"Ah,"  said  the  Doctor,  "that  is  something  new.  When  did 
you  hear  it? " 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  157 

"Barton  came  to  see  me  last  week.  He  is  to  come  to  the 
academy  tlie  next  term,  and  thinks  that  in  two  years  he  can  enter 
Amherst." 

"  Well,  well,  these  boys  run  away  with  their  father's  plans,  as 
kittens  do  with  a  knitter's  ball  of  yarn— roll  it  all  over  the  room 
and  snarl  it  terribly !  " 

And  so  Eose  now  perceived  what  was  the  thing  wliich  she  had 
felt— Barton  was  to  go  to  college.  She  was  glad.  He  would  be 
a  scholar,  for  he  always  did  conscientiously  and  well  whatever  he 
did.  And  he  would  be  distinguished.  Would  he  be  a  lawyer? 
Would  he  ever  rise  to  public  honors  ?  Would  he  preach  ?  Would 
he  choose  the  fields  of  science?  The  dim  and  misty  future  lay 
before  her  as  a  horizon  on  which  shapeless  clouds  took  and  lost 
form  at  the  same  moment.  Of  one  feeling  she  was  sure— she  was 
glad  for  Barton.  Her  soul  prophesied  for  him  a  noble  life,  and 
she  was  happy. 

From  the  hour  of  his  decision,  Barton  was  consciously  changed. 
A  new  life  had  opened.  All  things  stood  out  in  new  relations. 
He  was  even  more  industrious  and  thorough  in  his  daily  work  on 
the  farm. 

"  I  should  not  wonder,  Eachel,"  said  his  father,  "  if  Barton 
was  sorry  for  his  choice  ;  now  that  he  comes  to  think  of  leaving  it, 
he  likes  the  farm  better  than  he  knew.  He  clings  to  his  work  as 
if  he  was  sorry  that  he  must  leave  it." 

Eachel's  sympathy  interpreted  Barton  more  accurately.  She 
knew  how  a  highly  conscientious  nature  would  fear  the  not  doing 
well  that  which  it  was  no  longer  doing  for  the  love  of  it ;  and 
that  the  fear  of  slighting  work,  which  one  was  consciously  falling 
from,  would  redouble  caution  and  endeavor. 

"I  don't  think  Barton  is  tired  of  work  or  that  he  would  be 
sorry  to  stay ;  but  I  think  he  is  glad  to  go.  And  since  he  is  going 
to  leave,  he  naturally  is  anxious  lest  he  should  slight  any  thing. 
Folks  always  take  the  most  pains  about  the  things  that  they  are  in 
danger  of  neglecting." 

"  That  may  be  so  of  honest  people,  but  not  of  the  shiftless  and 
lazy." 

But  there  was  something  more  which  neither  recognized. 
Barton  was  proud  as  well  as  faithful.  There  was  a  reason  in  him- 
self which  he  felt,  but  never  analyzed  or  understood,  why  he  did 


158  Nonoood. 

faithfully  ^Yhat  he  did  at  all.  There  is  a  peculiar  effect  in  self 
esteem  to  impart  a  sense  of  one's  own  personality  to  whatever  one 
touches,  owns,  or  does.  Barton's  jjlanning  was  for  the  time  a  part 
of  his  own  self.  His  work  was  himself.  Self-respect  included  not 
his  mind  and  person  alone,  but  whatever  his  person  concerned 
itself  about.     And  to  slight  his  work  was  to  slight  himself. 

And  we  should  likewise  add,  what  so  many  know,  that  he  who 
has  once  learned  to  work  with  thoughtful  interest  and  genuine 
ambition  on  a  farm  will  never  lose  the  enthusiasm.  Every  year 
men  high  in  professional  places — artists,  judges,  clergymen,  senators, 
teachers — go  back  in  vacation  to  the  old  homestead,  and  feel  the 
old  inspiration  of  Work.  They  swing  the  flail,  they  follow  the 
plough,  they  swing  the  scythe,  or  axe,  with  enthusiasm,  and  often 
with  secret  wishes  that  they  had  never  forsaken  them ;  at  any 
rate,  with  a  half  purpose  of  retiring  from  crowded  ways  and 
feverish  pursuits  to  the  calm  and  wholesome  joys  of  husbandry. 

All  hail,  "Work !  Man  lost  Paradise  by  the  temptations  that 
beset  indolence.  He  will  regain  it  again  by  those  wholesome 
qualities  which  are  the  fruit  of  intelligent  work!  The  curse, 
"thou  shalt  earn  thy  bread  in  the  sweat  of  thy  brow,"  was  not  a 
curse  on  work,  but  on  drudgery.  It  is  time  that  the  curse  on  the 
ground  should  be  worked  out.  There  has  been  sweat  enough  to 
wash  it  clean.  There  have  tears  enough  fallen  down  to  make  the 
earth  sweet.  TTork  shall  beautify  it.  Work  shall  drive  out 
Drudgery  and  bring  in  Leisure,  and  then  men  shall  eat  their  bread 
under  cool  shadows  with  unsweated  brows! 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

MENTAL  PHILOSOPnY. — (tO  BE  BEAD  OE  SKIPPED;) 

Long  before  the  Amazon  reaches  the  ocean,  it  has  grown  so 
wide  that  from  the  channel  no  shore  can  be  seen  on  either  side. 
It  is  still  a  river,  but  with  all  the  signs  and  symptoms  of  becoming 
an  ocean.  There  is  a  period,  beginning  not  far  from  fourteen,  in 
young  lives  when  childhood  is  widened  suddenly,  and  carries  its 
banks  so  far  out  that  manhood  seems  begun,  though  as  yet  it  is  far 
off.  The  stream  is  ocean  deep.  Upon  this  estuary  of  youth  the 
currents  are  shifting — the  eddies  are  many.  Here  are  united  the 
strength  of  the  sea  and  the  hindrances  of  the  land. 

The  important  organic  changes  which  in  our  zone  take  place 
at  the  second  full  seven  of  years,  produce  important  results  even  in 
the  coldest  temperaments  and  in  the  slenderest  natures.  But,  in 
persons  of  vigor  of  body  and  strength  of  feeling,  there  is  fre- 
quently an  uprising  like  a  city  in  insurrection.  The  young  nature, 
swelling  to  the  new  influences  with  a  sense  of  immeasurable 
strength — sometimes  turbulent  with  passions,  but  always  throbbing 
with  excited  feelings,  led  on  and  fed  by  tantalizing  fancies, — seems 
transformed  from  its  previous  self,  and  becomes  a  new  nature. 

The  mere  access  of  impetuous  feeling  is  not  by  any  means  the 
most  striking  change  that  occurs.  There  is  frequently  the  appear- 
ance of  new  forces  in  the  mind,  the  displacement  of  old  ones,  and 
an  entire  change  of  proportion  and  balance  in  the  moral  and  intel- 
lectual faculties.  A  mild  and  docile  boy  springs  up  before  his 
astonished  parents  defiant  and  unteachable.  A  conscientious  and 
painstaking  nature  is  seized  with  wilful  impulses,  and  seems  by 
an  insano  attraction  drawn  to  bewildering  courses. 

On  the  other  hand,  lads  of  a  soft  and  yielding  nature  some- 
times stiffen  and  show  an  unexpected  strength.  Children  who  had 
early  and  chiefly  acted  from  motives  of  approbation  begin  to  feel 
the  sterner  and  more  wholesome  law  of  pride.  Faults  fall  off  at 
once,  against  which  nurse,  mother,  and  teacher  had  labored  assidu- 
ously and  in  vain. 

New  moral  forces  are  developed  into  activity.  Aspirations 
8 


160  Norwood ;  or, 

begin  to  quicken  the  soul.  Ambitions  grow  nobler.  A  scorn  of 
all  authority  which  does  not  conform  to  reason  or  to  generous 
views  of  duty  is  frequently  seen,  and  just  as  frequently  misunder- 
stood. The  exultation  of  hope  and  the  deepest  sadness  of  de- 
spondency alternate  in  the  same  bosom.  There  is  also  in  some 
natures,  in  strange  union,  an  intense  sensibility  to  pleasure,  with  a 
wayward  rejection  of  it  as  unsatisfying  and  unworthy. 

The  human  soul,  in  this  its  real  waking,  is  like  the  dawning  of 
spring  in  the  forest.  All  things  good  and  bad  are  quickened  alike. 
The  dove  comes,  and  the  hawk  also ;  the  singing  thrush,  and  the 
cawing  crow  ;  harmless  insects,  and  stinging  ones ;  innocent  worms, 
and  noxious  reptiles  !  The  spice-bush  and  the  nettle  ;  the  fragrant 
blossoms,  and  ill-scented,  poisonous  weeds",  all  move  together  and 
break  forth  into  life.  But  as  every  day  the  returning  sun,  moving 
higher,  brings  on  the  summer,  the  things  comely  and  useful  gain 
ascendency,  and  the  forest  and  the  field  nourish  treasures  for  the 
joy  of  man  and  beast.  Here  and  there  is  a  noisome  morass  which 
summer  only  makes  pestilential.  At  remote  intervals  rare  spots 
may  be  overgrown  with  poisonous  plants  or  waste  weeds ;  but 
these  things  are  exceptional ;  and  summer  brings,  in  vast  excess 
over  incidental  evil,  the  richest  stores  of  inestimable  benefit. 

All  natures  come  to  their  manhood  through  some  experience  of 
fermentation  !  With  some  it  is  a  ferment  of  passions ;  with  some, 
of  the  aftections ;  and  with  richly  endowed  natures  it  is  the  fer- 
ment of  thought  and  of  the  moral  nature. 

Wholesome  labor  is  for  this,  as  for  a  thousand  other  critical 
experiences  of  life,  an  antidote  or  a  remedy.  But  what  shall  save 
one  from  that  passage  of  the  thoughts,  that  struggle  of  the  moral 
nature,  which  lies  between  so  many  noble  youth  and  their  full 
manhood  ?  ISTothing !  It  may  be  adjourned,  but  sooner  or  later 
it  comes.  It  may  be  masked,  tempered,  but  a  full  and  vital  nature 
is  weaned  from  boyhood  with  as  many  tears  and  sorro^vs  as  first 
he  was  weaned  from  his  mother's  breast. 

Barton  Cathcart  escaped  the  constitutional  disturbance  of  the 
passions  partly  by  his  inherent  nature,  partly  by  the  influences  of 
home  and  its  education,  and  perhaps  full  as  much  by  the  whole- 
some moral  influence  of  physical  labor.  But  there  slumbered 
elements  in  his  soul  which  would  yet  awake,  though  the  time  was 
not  come. 


Tillage  Life  in  New  England.  lei 

From  his  father  Barton  inherited  strong  common  sense,  sobriet; 
of  judgment,  and  a  rarer  gift,  an  instinctive  sense  of  what  is  true 
which  may  coexist  with  an  argumentative  faculty  and  with  logi- 
cal power,  but  which  is  separable  from  both  of  them,  and  is  supe- 
rior to  both.  From  his  mother  came  imagination,  and  that  subtle 
sympathy  with  invisible  things  which  produces  interiorness  and 
depth  of  character. 

Except  with  his  mother  ho  had  till  now  spoken  of  his  inward 
life  and  feeling  to  no  one ;  and  even  with  her  the  intercourse  was 
one  of.  sympathy  more  than  of  conversation.  A  common  under- 
standing seemed  to  spring  up  between  them  without  words. 

For  a  year  he  pursued  his  studies  with  a  stubborn  persistence. 
The  elements  of  language,  and  the  grown  forms  of  learning,  fur- 
nished wearisome  and  prosaic  tasks.  But  gradually  he  began  to 
learn  the  pleasure  of  intellectual  victories.  His  pride,  which  at 
times  had  almost  fiercely  repelled  discouragement,  began  to  ex- 
perience satisfaction  in  the  consciousness  of  power. 

Although  Barton  had  maintained  that  intimacy  with  Dr.  TVent- 
worth's  family  in  which  he  had  been  reared,  it  was  not  until  his 
second  year  at  the  academy  that  his  companionship  with  Rose 
Wentworth  began  to  include  an  interchange  of  thoughts,  and 
reasonings,  and  even  discussions. 

Accustomed  to  her  father's  society,  and  familiar  from  her 
childhood  with  his  discussions  of  questions  in  a  spirit  far  deeper 
than  usually  prevails,  it  is  not  surprising  that  Rose,  some  years 
younger,  was  fully  Barton's  equal,  and,  perhaps,  in  many  ranges 
of  life  his  superior.  Certainly,  in  taste,  in  the  discrimination  of 
the  subtler  forms  of  nature,  and  in  the  depth  and  variety  of  the 
enjoyments  which  spontaneously  sprung  up  in  her  soul,  she  was 
Barton's  superior. 

What  impression  Rose  "Wentworth  produced  upon  others  shall 
be  left  for  them  to  say,  at  their  own  time,  and  in  their  own  man- 
ner. But  it  is  for  us  to  show  the  groundwork  of  her  nature,  from 
w^hich  all  these  impressions  arose. 

Perfect  physical  health  produced  an  even  flow  of  spirits,  and  an 
exhilaration  of  manner,  such  as  leads  lambs  to  skip,  and  kittens  to 
frolic ;  and  this,  in  Rose,  prevented  any  of  that  little-girl  saint- 
ship  of  manner  which  many  are  fond  of  depicting.  She  was  buoy- 
ant, joyous,  free-moving,  and  artless.     Every  side  of  her  mind  was 


162  Norwood ;  or, 

developed.  Deep  and  rich  in  moral  feeling,  strong  and  fine  in  the 
affections,  quick  and  fruitful  in  intellect,  she  had,  under  honne  in- 
fluence, been  educated  to  an  outward  and  inward  life  of  singular 
fulness  and  beauty. 

In  estimating  the  causes  of  character,  men  ascribe  much  to 
circumstances,  much  to  training,  and  much  to  the  fulness  and  force 
of  one's  original  endowments.  But  there  are  other  elements  more 
subtle,  but  of  profound  value,  in  the  structure  of  that  most  won- 
derful of  all  architectures — the  character;  built  up  of  invisible 
materials,  without  sound  or  force,  permanent  in  its  nature,  yet  in 
form  flexible,  and  prolific  in  change.  Chief  among  these  are  to  be 
reckoned  sympathy  hetween  faculties,  and  unity  of  action. 

Some  people's  heads  are  mere  lodging  houses  of  faculties ;  each 
lodger  minds  his  own  business,  and  meddles  as  little  as  possible 
with  others.  After  a  whole  life,  it  cannot  be  perceived  that  the 
social  affections  have  derived  the  least  influence  from  the  moral 
sentiments  by  whose  side  they  have  lived  scores  of  years.  And 
the  reverse,  also,  is  witnessed,  when  the  affections  have  neither 
softened  nor  warmed  the  moral  sentiments,  nor  seemed  to  have  had 
any  intercourse  with  them.  Many  men's  passions  act  without  curb 
or  influence  from  the  reason,  and  are  limited  and  restrained  only 
by  their  own  selfish  interests. 

This  non-intercourse  may  be  the  result  of  education,  or  of  the 
want  of  it.  But  there  is  an  original  aptitude  in  this  matter.  Con- 
gruity  and  inter-sympathy  tend,  in  some  natures,  to  entire  har- 
mony and  unity  in  the  mind's  life ;  whUe,  in  others,  there  is  a 
stratification,  as  it  were,  of  faculty.  N'othing  acts  out  of  its  own 
plane.  Certain  elements  of  mind  act  in  their  own  class,  but  never 
out  of  it,  and  the  faculties,  like  disintegrated  musicians  in  a  mu- 
tinous orchestra,  play  by  single  ones,  or  by  twos  and  threes,  but 
never  in  solid  unity  and  harmony. 

It  is  thus  that  some  natures  squander  life-force  in  intermittent 
efforts.  Their  endowments  are  ample,  but  they  are  frittered  away 
uselessly.  But  where  the  happy  temperament  unites  in  an  original 
and  spontaneous  harmony  all  the  parts  of  one's  nature,  the  aug- 
mentation of  force  is  but  a  small  part  of  the  good  fortune.  There 
is  a  breadth,  a  variety,  a  depth,  a  fertility  of  experience,  which 
yields  to  single^  lives  more  of  joy  than  is  possessed  by  scores  of 
ordinary  men. 


Village  Life  in  New  En  (/land.  ig3 

Education  is  popularly  supposed  to  be  the  unfolding  of  mental 
forces.  Far  more  important,  in  education,  is  the  inspiration  of 
facile  intercourse  between  all  parts  of  the  mind,  the  opening  up  of 
free  trade  and  active  commerce  between  all  its  faculties. 

Eose  was  gifted,  to  the  last  degree,  in  her  constitutional  en- 
dowments. Every  part  of  her  nature  was  in  sympathetic  relation 
to  every  other  part.  There  were  no  repulsions  or  discrepancies 
between  her  mental  powers.  They  were  in  exquisite  -sympathy ; 
they  were  in  singular  symmetry  ;  they  were  in  perfect  harmony. 

Barton  had  a  strong  and  large  nature,  but  not  reconciled  within 
itself.  There  were  great  conflicts  yet  to  be  endured ;  the  more 
painful  because  unintelligible.  They  might  have  wrecked  his 
peace,  had  it  not  been  for  help  coming  from  outside  of  himself. 
But  that  help  did  not  come  till  late,  and  then  was  followed  soon 
by  other  experiences,  by  the  exaltation,  heat  and  fusion  of  a  great 
struggle. 

The  transition  from  girlhood  to  womanhood  is  marked  by  the 
development  of  sentiment  rather  than  by  conflicts  of  passion.  That 
balance  and  harmony  of  nature,  witli  which  Rose  was  endowed, 
had  its  fortunate  parallel  in  her  external  condition.  Every  cir- 
cumstance about  her  conspired  to  give  to  her  mind  a  natural  de- 
velopment. A  mother's  love,  strong  and  rich,  was  seasoned  with 
a  genial  religious  element,  which  gave  to  it  the  color  of  something 
more  than  an  earthly  affection.  Agate  Bissell  furnished  the  sterner 
elements,  the  sense  of  conscience  in  daily  duties,  and  she  clothed 
the  qualities  of  regularity,  method,  and  exactitude  with  a  semi- 
moral  nature.  Her  father's  nature  tended  to  enlarge  the  sphere 
of  her  understanding,  and  of  her  spiritual  nature.  She  was  borne 
upon  his  nature,  as  a  soft,  white  cloud  is  borne  up  and  wafted  by 
the  whole  atmosphere.  The  cloud  fades  out  and  reappears,  is  ab- 
sorbed and  comes  again,  is  white,  or  crimson,  or  golden,  according 
to  the  pulses  of  color  which  beat  in  the  air.  Yet  Rose,  though  by 
charming  Sympathy  thus  easily  melted  into  her  father's  moods, 
never  lost  her  own  individuality,  but  had  a  spring  and  force  of 
selfness  which  held  her  to  the  centre  of  her  own  proper  and  dis- 
tinct nature. 

Her  father's  influence  had  given  a  full  development  to  that  ali- 
fiided  sympathy,  both  with  society  and  with  nature,  which  never  ex- 
ists without  forming  a  rich  and  deep  life.    The  result  in  Rose  was, 


164  Norwood. 

that  slie  derived  enjoyment  from  every  side  without  effort,  and 
ahnost  without  consciousness.  She  sat  happily  while  the  shrewish 
wrens  sang,  and  listened  to  Agate,  to  Mother  Taft,  to  Mi's.  Polly 
Marl)le.  vShe  sat  under  the  trees  in  the  edges  of  the  forest,  where 
the  shy  wood-thrush  sang,  and  with  her  father  talked  of  questions 
as  unlike  famihar  life  as  is  that  bird's  song  unlike  the  sound  of  fa- 
miliar field  notes.  She  looked  up  to  Dr.  Buell  with  affectionate 
awe.  His  moral  philosophy  seemed  no  more  discrepant  with  her 
father's,  because  it  was  different,  than  one  species  of  flower  or 
tree  seemed  at  variance  with  others,  from  which  they  only  differed. 
But  love  is  the  acting  force  of  a  woman's  life, 'and  love  is  the  or- 
ganizing centre.  In  some  this  element  is  mild,  easily  susceptible, 
and  as  strong  at  the  very  first  as  ever  afterward.  In  others  it  lies 
deep,  inaccessible,  capable  of  transcendent  power ;  but,  unreached 
by  ordinary  influences,  it  goes  sometimes  all  through  life  undevel- 
oped, reserved  for  a  better  life. 

Eose  was  regarded  as  of  an  affectionate  nature  ;  but,  in  reality, 
the  wealth  of  her  nature  lay  far  below  the  influence  of  daily  life, 
and  unreached.  Great  as  therefore  were  the  expectations  which 
her  nature  excited  in  those  fitted  to  appreciate  her  gifts,  there  was 
a  power  beneath,  should  it  ever  develop,  that  would  surprise  even 
an  ardent  expectation. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


TWILIGHT     DAWN. 


The  time  had  come  for  Barton  Cathcart  to  enter  college.  lie 
had  finished  liis  preparatory  studies  in  a  manner  peculiarly  like 
himself.  His  application,  without  any  external  flurry  or  pretence, 
had  been  intense.  To  a  real  intellectual  appetite  he  added  a  pride 
which  intensified  his  endeavors.  A  difiiculty  in  his  studies  seemed 
to  him  almost  like  a  personal  insult.  It  roused  inwardly  a  fire 
that  could  be  laid  only  by  victory  over  it.  He  put  his  life  against 
every  obstacle.  His  form  had  attained  its  full  proportions.  He 
was  tall,  athletic,  niiable  as  a  deer,  strong  and  enduring.  Though 
intense  application  t^ok  something  of  color  from  his  cheek,  the 
necessity  of  much  out-door  exercise  had  maintained  his  essential 
vigor.  No  one  in  his  class  ranked  him  in  any  study.  No  one  in 
the  village  approached  him  on  the  ball  ground,  or  in  races.  His 
sedate  kindness,  his  honorable  spirit,  joined  to  his  scholastic  ability, 
made  him  the  pride  of  the  young  men,  and  the  whole  town  hoped, 
when  young  Cathcart  entered  Amherst  College,  that  he  might 
"  take  the  Valedictory." 

It  was  mid-summer.  He  had  been  to  Amherst  for  examination 
and  matriculation,  and  was  now  at  home,  awaiting  the  opening  term. 
The  atmosphere  on  the  day  of  whose  evening  we  shall  speak  had 
been  very  pure,  the  sky  of  a  deep  and  even  solemn  blue.  A  pecu- 
liar quality  of  air  gave  to  all  objects  the  utmost  clarity.  These 
days  are  formed  by  distant  storms.  Somewhere  there  had  been 
thunder  and  mighty  rains,  but  so  far  away  that  no  other  sign  of  it 
was  perceived  but  this  rare  and  opaline  day.  There  was  in  the 
atmosphere  a  sadness  and  tenderness  that  seemed  born  of  storms 
overcome.  At  least  so  Rachel  felt,  and  so  Barton  thought,  as  the 
sun  went  down  below  a  horizon  without  a  line  or  hand's  width  of 
cloud — and  the  moon  shone  from  the  opposite  quarter. 

The  day's  work  was  done.  That  charm  of  tender  melancholy 
which  comes  so  often  with  twilight  had  stolen  over  mother  and 
Bon,  as  they  sat  in  the  door,  enjoying  this  silent  communion  the 
more  because  so  near  the  last  of  such  scenes.    Rachel  remembered 


166  Norwood;  OTy 

how  he  looked  when  as  a  babe  he  first  lay  in  her  arms,  as  if  it 
were  but  yesterday.  There  he  sat,  a  young  man !  She  remem- 
bered the  eras  of  his  boyhood;  single  scenes  of  joy  and  trouble 
stood  out  as  if  undimmed  by  days  and  distance.  Her  heart  swelled 
with  pride  and  love  as  she  looked  upon  her  son's  face,  that  never 
looked  nobler  to  her  than  in  this  flush  of  rosy  twilight  upon  the 
growing  moonlight.  One  whole  period  of  life  was  closed,  sealed, 
and  put  away.  At  her  very  feet  opened  another  path,  along  which 
his  manhood  was  to  develop.  Her  heart  prophesied  success.  He 
would  return  to  her  one  day,  so  wise,  and  strong,  and  good,  that 
she  should  look  up  to  him,  and  lean  her  declining  strength  upon 
his. 

Alice  sat  in  the  parlor,  where  no  lamp  was  burning,  playing 
melancholy  Scotch  airs,  and  singing  ballads  in  a  low  and  soft 
voice.  Out  in  the  wheat-field  came  a  whippoorwill,  and  sat 
upon  a  flat  rock  there,  which  was  yet  warm  with  the  day's  heat. 
So  near  was  it  that  the  shrill  wail  was  painful.  Barton  drove  it 
away.  His  mother  half  shuddered.  She  was  not  superstitious, 
"but  yet  to  drive  away  a  singing  bird  was  almost  like  driving  away 
joy  from  her  own  door.  It  was  but  a  flitting  thought.  The  bird 
flew,  and  in  a  field  more  remote  tuned  again  its  softer,  sadder 
note. 

"  In  a  few  days.  Barton,  you  wiU  go.  The  place  will  miss  you. 
You  have  been  a  good  son,  and  faithful  at  work.  The  blessing 
pronounced  upon  obedient  children  will  surely  rest  upon  you." 

"Mother,  I  shall  not  be  far  away.  It  will  not  seem  like  a 
journey  or  a  voyage." 

"  Ah,  my  son,  in  separations,  though  great  distances  may  be 
more,  short  ones  are  never  less  painful.  Absence  is  the  main 
thing.  Every  child  that  goes  away  leaves  one  channel  less  for 
the  heart  to  flow  through,  and  throws  our  thoughts  back  into 
ourselves." 

"I  have  a  strange  feeling,  mother.  I  am  glad  and  sorry  both. 
But  now  that  I  am  to  go,  I  am  impatient  to  be  gone  and  to  be  at 
my  work." 

"  It  is  best.  Your  father's  blessing  and  your  mother's  heart 
go  with  you." 

They  sat  near  the  door,  holding  each  other's  hands.  The  eve- 
ning scene,  the  song  of  the  whippoorwill,  the  approaching  sep- 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  107 

aration,  a  vague  shudder,  as  there  arose  for  a  flitting  moment  an 
impression  of  the  great  out-rolling  future  of  life,  an  undefined  and 
painful  thought  of  Kose,  and  now  his  mother's  words,  wrought  in 
Barton  such  an  mtensity  of  feeling,  that,  when  Rachel  laid  her 
hand  upon  his  raven-black  hair,  he  could  no  longer  contam  him- 
self, but  leaning  his  head  upon  his  mother's  lap,  he  wept  as  if  the 
floods  were  broken  loose.  Her  tears  fell  with  his.  Some  words 
more  were  spoken  of  mutual  love  and  need,  but  they  are  not  for 
us  to  record.  Not  to  every  angel,  even,  is  it  given  to  know  the 
full  meaning  and  sacredness  of  a  mother's  and  a  son's  innermost 
communion,  in  a  love  utterly  without  passion,  without  color  of 
selfishness,  deep  as  life,  and  stronger  than  death  ! 

The  next  day  came  Dr.  Wentworth,  Rose  and  her  mother,  to 
spend  the  afternoon  and  evening.  Whatever  Barton  felt,  no  one 
could  see  by  his  eye  or  his  manner  that  Rose's  presence  was  more 
to  him  than  that  of  a  sister-friend. 

If  Barton  was  susceptible  to  the  contagion  of  love,  this  was  a 
dangerous  day !  Rose  was  in  great  spirits.  Her  love  for  Alice 
had  never  shown  itself  before  in  ways  so  beautiful.  She  was  in 
sympathy  with  every  one,  and  with  each  upon  his  own  plane. 
Her  words  were  not  forced ;  they  changed  as  gently  as  do  pictures 
in  a  looking-glass,  when  in  quick  succession  one  and  another 
passes  before  it. 

She  was  more  than  cordial  with  Barton.  She  frankly  preferred 
hhn,  and  without  a  guise  or  pretence  followed  him  with  her  eye  and 
foot,  just  as  she  would  have  done  her  own  brother,  if  he  were  leav- 
ing home  in  the  full  expectation  of  literary  honors.  Barton,  too, 
felt  only  pleasure  in  Rose's  company.  Could  he  have  said  that 
Rose  was  to  him  only  like  a  sister?  Yes,  he  could  have  saiJ  it 
smcerely.  But  is  ev?ry  sincere  saymg  of  course  true  ?  Do  we 
know  all  that  wx  think  we  do  ?  Are  there  not,  below  what  we  dx> 
know,  great  depths  of  truth  not  yet  made  plain  to  us  ?  In  things 
of  the  heart  our  knowledge  is  as  a  little  child  lying  in  a  skiff  upon 
the  ocean,  seeing  only  the  sides  of  the  petty  boat  but  nothing  of 
the  great  underlying  sea  that  heaves  it ! 

Rose  beheved  herself  to  be  only  Barton's  friend  and  sister— Rose 

was  right  when  she  thought  so.     Barton  thought  Iiimself  only 

Rose's  friend  and  brother.     Why,  then,  were  there  moments  of 

Bharp  pain?— flashes  of  love-pride,  that  seemed  for  a  second  to 

8+ 


168  Norwood ;  or, 

lay  bare  the  secret  places  of  his  soul,  as  a  long  flash  of  lightning, 
at  night,  sharply  reveals  the  whole  landscape  in  unnatural  light  ? 

Rose  and  Barton  stood  alone,  talking,  under  the  great  elms  that 
shaded  Cathcart's  yard. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  you  leave  us,  Barton.  Norwood  -will  hardly 
be  natural  without  you.  But  you  will  come  home  often,  and  I 
«hall  make  father  drive  us  over  to  Amherst ;  for  you  know  that  we 
are  all  proud  of  you,  Barton." 

Such  tribute  was  peculiarly  grateful  to  pride,  and  much  pride 
had  Barton  ;  and  yet,  he  waited  as  if  Rose  had  not  yet  said  what 
Le  wanted. 

In  a  low  tone,  as  if  meditating,  and  speaking  unconsciously,  he 
said: 

"  You  feel  pride,  and  Alice  feels  love,  for  me." 

"  Alice  does  not  love  you  any  better  than  I  do,"  said  Rose,  lay- 
ing her  hand  upon  Barton's  arm  in  the  most  frank  and  familiar 
manner.  "TTebothofus  love  you,  and  every  body  is  proud  of 
you.  I  wish  I  felt  as  sure  of  my  own  brothers  as  I  do  of  you. 
You  will  be  good  and  noble,  and  I  think  that  is  being  great." 

Her  words  did  not  confer  pleasure ;  something  was  wanting. 

Just  then  came  that  same  whippoorwill  and  lit  upon  the  flat 
stone  in  the  wheat-field,  and  began  his  love  song,  so  loud  and  so 
near,  that  besides  the  clear  whistle  which  alone  is  heard  at  a  dis- 
tance, all  the  undertone  of  throat  music — the  sucking  of  the 
breath,  and  a  reedy  tenor  tone — were  distinctly  audible.  Rose 
stood  like  one  at  first  surprised,  but  whose  thoughts  were  being 
carried  away,  afar  and  afar  oflf!  Barton's  whole  soul  thrilled. 
Was  it  a  Mrd^  or  a  bird-enclosed  spirit  that  came  to  him  last 
night  with  his  mother,  and  that  came  again  to-night  with  Rose  ? 
Was  there  some  omen  in  this  coupling  witK  its  wild,  melancholy 
song  his  mother  and  Rose,  as  of  the  two  most  intimately  con- 
cerned in  his  destiny?  The  song  was  becoming  painful.  The 
stridor  of  its  notes  wrought  too  keenly  on  his  nerves.  And  when 
the  night-singer  ceased,  flew  away,  and  began  again  at  a  distance, 
he  felt  a  grateful  sense  of  relief. 

"Rose,  that  bird  has  a  strange  effect  upon  me.  It  came  last 
night  and  sang.  It  seemed  unearthly.  What  does  it  seem  to 
you?" 

"It  affects  me  painfully  too.     It  seems  to  stir  the  imagination 


Villa(je  Life  in  New  England,  ig9 

toward  the  spirit  world.  It  makes  familiar  things  seem  strange. 
Somehow  I  feel  bewildered,  as  if  I  was  neither  in  the  body  nor  out. 
Barton,  do  you  ever  feel  both  happy  and  unhappy  at  the  same 
time  ?  Do  you  ever  feel  as  if  you  were  alone  in  the  world  ?  as  if 
your  thoughts  took  you  into  regions  where  no  one  could  go  with 
you,  and  revealed  to  you  things  which  you  could  not  utter  ?  I 
often  feel  so.  That  bird  has  started  me  off  to-night.  I  wish  that 
I  were  a  penetrating  spirit,  free  from  the  body,  and  could  go  every- 
where, and  find  out  all  things,  and  move  freely  as  the  air  does,  and 
as  widely  as  the  light !  I  feel  as  if  something  were  always  hovering 
near  that  I  never  catch.  "When  I  look  on  flowers  it  seems  to  me  I 
see  every  thing  but  just  that  secret  something  which  makes  them 
what  they  are  !  And  when  I  hear  some  kinds  of  music,  I  listen 
again,  certain  that  under  all  the  sound  other  sounds  more  exquisite 
are  surely  coming ;  but  they  do  not  come.  When  I  sit  in  the  pine 
woods,  voices  almost  make  themselves  plain,  and  I  am  just  going 
to  hear  some  mystic  message  ;  but — it  never  comes.  I  believe  it 
is  because  I  am  a  woman.  If  I  were  a  man,  and  could  lay  hold 
on  the  world,  and  have  a  business  of  my  own,  I  am  sure  I  should 
feel  differently,  I  could  find  out  things  ;  couldn't  I,  Barton  ?  lam 
very  happy,  but  I  ahvays  seem  to  be  waiting  for  something." 

Poor  child !  There  is  an  army  of  waiters  in  this  world.  The 
tears  were  running  down  her  cheeks,  and  yet  Kose  was  laughing 
and  looking  up  to  Barton  with  the  most  artless  simplicity,  as  if 
he,  like  her  own  father,  had  the  power  of  solving  her  problems  or 
changing  her  moods. 

Barton  thought  he  had  never  before  looked  upon  any  thing  so 
beautiful !     He  never  had. 

The  moonlight  fell  through  the  openings  of  the  elm  upon  her 
face.  The  slightest  breath  of  wind  moving  the  pliant  boughs 
shifted  the  light,  which  now  left  her  head,  then  streamed  back 
upon  it ;  now  again  left  it  in  twilight,  and  then  suddenly  glowed 
upon  it  with  dazzling  beauty. 

Barton  seemed  inspired  with  a  new  spirit.  He  could  never  say 
again  that  he  felt  only  a  brother's  love.  His  hour  had  come,  and 
every  thought  and  feeling  of  his  nature  rose  up  to  tell  him  that,  of 
all  human  kind.  Rose  Wentworth  was  best  beloved !  He  could 
never  call  her  sister  again.  The  intensity  of  his  feeling  showed 
everything  in   a  white  light.     In  the  exaltation  of  this  sudden 


170  Norwood. 

transport  ho  learned  that  the  mind  may  carry  on  many  processes 
at  once.  He  did  not  for  a  moment  deceive  himself  in  supposing 
that  Rose  had  for  him  any  such  emotions  as  now  filled  his  heart. 
!N'ot  for  a  moment  did  he  purpose  to  secure  her  deeper  interest  in 
him  by  the  pleadings  of  his  OTrn  feelings.  Eose  stood  before  him 
as  something  holy,  to  be  won,  not  by  surprise  or  importunity,  but 
by  the  free  movements  of  her  own  nature,  or  not  at  all. 

"  Can  I  ever  be  that  which  shall  draw  her  to  me  of  her  own 
choice  ?  Till  then,  for  my  own  sake,  and  for  her  sake,  I  will  not 
speak." 

"Barton,"  said  Eose,  with  the  most  bewitching  simplicity, 
"  what  are  you  thinking  of?  I  know  that  I  should  love  to  hear 
what  you  are  thinking.    Do  tell  me  ?  " 

"Oh,  Eose! " 

His  voice  was  strained  and  unnatural.  It  was  like  a  cry  of 
pain.  Eose  trembled  and  drew  near  a  step,  iind  looked  upon  him 
almost  as  if  she  feared  to  see  sonae  revelation.  But  in  an  instant 
Barton,  with  an  inward  effort,  said  in  a  more  natural  tone : 

"  Eose,  great  things  have  been  shown  me  to-night.  Whether 
I  tell  you  or  not,  I  leave  with  God,  as  I  leave  myself,  and  my 
mother,  and  Alice,  and  you,  Eose,  with  God !  Come,  it  is  dan- 
gerous for  us  to  remain  here,  the  air  grows  damp — let  us  go  in!  " 

Dimly  and  painfully  Eose  began  to  perceive  the  change  in  Bar 
ton  and  its  meaning.  The  thought  that  arose  in  her  mind  was 
quick,  clear,  brief,  and  then  it  sank  down,  down,  down  below  all 
other  thoughts,  below  all  common  feehngs  ; — down  below  her 
communings  with  her  father, — below  her  very  yearnings ; — down 
where  the  soul's  germs  are  formed, — as  far  down  as  the  bottom  of 
the  sea,  where  pearls  lie  undisturbed  by  storms,  is  from  the  top, — 
there  fell  her  secret  thought,  and  there  it  rested. 


CHAPTER  XXIIT 

A   CONFESSION. 

It  was  plain  to  young  Cathcart  from  that  hour  that  his  life  had 
found  the  point  on  which  it  would  turn.  Had  he  never  before 
suspected  the  secret?  In  all  his  years  of  familiar  intercourse  had 
he  never  plainly  raised  the  quostion  of  the  precise  nature  of  his 
feelings  towards  Eose?  Had  there  never  been  moods  or  happy 
moments  of  meeting  or  of  parting  at  which  the  secret  bore  wit- 
ness of  the  true  state  of  things  ? 

Many  men  are  timid  of  others,  and  shy  of  revealing  their 
secret  thoughts  to  ajiother.  But  there  is  a  form  of  sensibility 
springmg  from  a  manly  pride,  which  works  shyness  of  one's  own 
self.  Men  refuse  to  think  on  the  results  of  thinkmg.  They  dim- 
ly perceive  what  is  coming  and  veil  it.  Natures  capable  of  suf- 
fering from  subtle  influences  guide  their  thoughts  with  as  much 
care  and  skill  to  shield  them  and  spare  them,  as  they  do  their 
bodies  in  walking  through  a  rocky  pass,  or  a  forest  filled  with 
thorns  and  briers. 

But,  in  young  Cathcart' s  case  there  was  another  fact,  that  his 
feelings  had  really  not  grown  to  a  ripeness  for  disclosure.    Where 
love  is  a  mere  passion,  or  where  it  is  largely  an  imaginative  sen- 
timent, it  is  susceptible  of  sudden  development.    But  when  love 
is  a  leaven  that  silently  works  through  the  whole  economy  of 
mind  and  soul,  and  gradually  pervades  every  part  of  the  nature, 
it  cannot  be  sudden.     It  cannot  even  be  known,  in  its  incipiency, 
nor  discriminated  from  common  good  will,  from  confidence  found- 
ed upon  respect,  from  genial  sympathy,  from  mere  likeness  and 
unison  of  feeling.     Love  is  seldom  seen  in  its  full  and  perfect 
form.     For  that,  it  requires  a  greatness  of  nature  that  does  not 
come  often ;  and  two  natures,  both  large  and  various,  yet  unlike, 
though  not  discordant,  are  still  rarer.     In  ordinary  life  the  af- 
fection of  love  is  a  mere  melody,  the  music  of  a  single  aficction. 
But  in  its  higher  form  love  is   many  melodies  wrought  into  a 
harmony.     It  is  a   point  at  which  every  power  and  faculty  of 


172  Norwood ;  or, 

one's  nature  comes  to  a  Unity,  and  the  whole  being  becomes 
symmetrical  and  harmonious.  An  experience  so  simple  in  its 
final  form,  but  so  complex  in  all  the  elements  which  lead  to  it, 
is  not  the  growth  of  an  hour.  If  in  some  natures  it  springs  up 
in  youth,  it  must  yet,  like  summer  flowers,  have  gone  through  a 
development  from  the  seed  or  root  to  the  blossom  of  the  fruit. 

Barton  Cathcart  had  not  reached  the  fruit,  nor  even  the  blos- 
som. He  had  found  out  what  was  the  name  of  that  fragrant  vine 
which  was  twining  around  his  being.  But  of  its  unfolding,  and 
of  all  the  clustered  experiences  that  yet  lay  undisclosed  within  it, 
he  knew  nothing. 

When  Eose  was  going,  with  her  family,  to  return  home,  Bar- 
ton seemed  calm  and  self-possessed  outwardly,  but  within  his  feel- 
ings flowed  like  fast-rushing  waters  in  moonlight,  flashing  the  soft 
light  from  their  unquiet  surfaces  with  such  abruptness  that  the 
moon  would  hardly  know  its  own  light,  so  wild  and  disordered 
did  it  seem  !  If,  in  the  going  to  and  fro,  he  was  alone  with  Rose, 
he  avoided  her  as  if  her  presence  brought  pain ;  but,  when  they 
came  again  among  the  families.  Barton  clung  to  her  side  and 
sported  and  frolicked  as  if  they  were  brother  and  sister  indeed. 
It  was  a  double  instinct.  He  would  not  renew  with  Rose  that 
perilous  conversation,  and  he  would  not  disclose  by  any  change  of 
manner  to  others  that  there  was  in  his  heart  any  other  feeling 
toward  Eose  than  that  which  had  always  existed  between  the 
members  of  their  warmly-attached  families. 

And  so  had  begun,  in  pain  and  struggle,  that  experience  whose 
real  and  final  nature  it  is  to  bring  peace.  And,  in  some  natures, 
Love  is  born  of  Peace,  nourished  in  tranquillity,  and  from  the 
first  brings  forth  joy  and  peace.  It  knows  no  struggle,  but  only 
gradual  development.  But  in  other  natures,  Love  has  a  control- 
ling work  to  perform  before  it  may  rule  in  peace.  Like  a  stream 
born  in  the  mountains,  it  hides  itself  among  rocks,  it  is  driven 
over  them  in  foam  and  fury,  it  is  shut  up  in  dark  pools,  and  steals 
away  through  ravines  and  clifi's,  still  gathering  power  but  finding  no 
quiet  until,  far  away  from  its  sources,  it  has  fulfilled  its  course;  and 
then  at  length,  its  pure  waters,  flowing  through  flower-breeding 
meadows,  rest  in  deep  lakes,  where  all  its  agitations  are  forgotten 
in  deep  tranquillity.  Not  one  star  that  shone  upon  it  aU  the  way 
down  the  mountain  could  it  reflect  again  except  in  torn  and  scat- 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  175 

tered  beams  (»f  light.     Now  every  star  of  heaven  is  at  home  in  its 
bosom, 

When  Rose  was  gone,  Barton  felt  a  joy  of  relief.  lie  was 
calm.  This  is  the  nature  of  intense  excitement  which  brings  the 
mind  to  unity.  Barton  went  to  his  chamber  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  lie  calmly  wondered  in  his  own  mind  wliether  he  had 
been  greatly  stirred-up  during  the  evening ;  he  looked  out  of  the 
window  upon  the  yard  and  the  near  fields  which  lay  white  with 
moonlight,  and  he  marvelled  at  his  own  calmness.  What  had  be- 
come of  his  heart?  Where  were  his  feelings? 

One  cricket,  the  first  that  he  had  heard  this  summer,  was 
chirping  with  a  shrill  cherlc — a  stridulous  monotone,  which,  in 
certain  moods,  compares  well  with  our  feelings  ;  while,  in  others, 
it  grates  sharply  against  the  nerve.  Was  there  ever  storm  in 
such  a  hemisphere  as  this  ?  Were  ever  these  tranquil  heavens 
black  with  rolling  clouds  ?  Were  these  trees  that  loom  up  be- 
tween light  and  dark,  as  if  they  were  spirits,  ever  twisted  and 
strained  by  groaning  winds  ?  Was  his  own  soul  that  lay  within 
him  as  if  asleep  for  very  peace,  sharply  torn,  whirled  with  revolu- 
tion, agitated  by  fear  of  disclosure,  but  an  hour  ago  ? 

He  sat  leaning  his  head  upon  his  palm  by  the  window.  A 
bird  in  the  near  tree  sang  in  its  sleep,  and  awaked  by  its  own 
sweet  half-strain,  suddenly  stopped,  and  left  the  air  still.  Then, 
afar  off  he  heard  a  dog  barking.  That  started  off  another,  and  a 
peal  of  answering  dogs  rolled  through  the  neighborhood.  One 
by  one  they  dropped  off,  and  let  the  stillness  alone.  Two  men 
walked  past,  talking  in  low  tones.  It  was  stiller  than  ever  when 
they  had  gone.  A  sigh  of  air  moved  among  the  trees.  It  was  as 
if  the  night  had  taken  a  long  breath.  The  leaves  quivered,  shook 
off  some  drops  of  dew,  and  fell  asleep  again. 

There  is  no  such  lonesomeness  as  that  which  the  young  feel  be- 
fore they  have  applied  their  powers  in  life,  and  vindicated  their 
place  in  society.  It  is  dreariness.  That  feeling  began  to  steal  over 
Barton.  For  a  moment  a  sentiment  of  pity  for  himself  began  to 
rise,  but  was  suppressed  by  a  sharp  reaction  of  pride.  The  slight 
conflict  aroused  him,  and  he  rose  to  retire  to  his  bed.  Behold ! 
his  mother  stood  by  his  side!  So  silently  had  she  entered,  and  so 
absorbed  had  been  his  thoughts,  that  he  had  not  heard  her  foot- 
step.   How  long  she  had  watched  him  he  knew  not.     There  was 


174  Norwood ;  or, 

at  first  a  quick  feeling  of  discovery.  It  seemed  as  if  liis  own 
thoughts  and  fancies  had  been  walking  forth  in  visible  form,  and 
that  his  mother  must  have  seen  them. 

But  Eachel  was  a  prophet.  She  did  not  need  outward  actions 
or  the  sound  of  words,  at  least  to  interpret  her  children's  thoughts. 
She  had  inward  sight.  To  Barton's  sudden  interjection,  or  inter- 
rogatory : 

"  Mother !  " — she  made  no  other  answer  than  to  draw  him  down 
to  his  seat.  The  moon  gave  light  enough  to  make  looks  and  forms 
more  emphatic  than  if  the  light  had  been  clearer.  Rachel  asked 
no  question,  nor  made  explanation,  but  spoke  as  if  announcing  a  re- 
sult of  long  conversation  in  her  thoughts. 

"  Barton!  you  are  in  danger  of  losing  your  mother." 

He  started,  and  looked  keenly  at  her  as  if  to  see  if  signs  of 
sickness  were  on  her  cheek. 

"I  am  not  going  to  leave  you.     But  you  are  leaving  me." 

"But,  mother,  how  can  I  go  to  college  and  not  leave  you?  I 
thought  you  were  glad " 

"It  is  not  separation  that  I  fear,  but  separation  of  life.  A 
change  has  come  to  you.  You  live  in  things  which  you  do  not 
speak  about.  Your  life  is  entering  into  new  paths,  where  you 
wiU  need  help,  and  will  find  none.  There  is  no  friend  like  a 
mother.  Barton,  come  back  to  me,  and  don't  leave  me !  "  There 
was  something  solemn  and  inexpressibly  tender  in  his  mother's 
tone  and  manner.  It  seemed  as  if  aU  motherhood  lay  at  the  door 
of  his  heart,  begging  to  come  in ! 

There  is  in  every  royal  nature  a  holy  of  holies;  a  shrine  within 
the  shrine ;  a  place  of  silence ;  the  very  place  of  germs,  where 
thought,  emotion,  and  being  itself,  begin.  Into  that  comes  not  the 
most  intimate.  If  any  one  has  seen  it,  if  any  foot  has  trod  it,  we 
have  banished  ourselves  and  cannot  return.  There  we  meet  God. 
There  we  meet  ourselves.  There  we  hide  from  love  itself.  But 
there  a  mother  may  come !  And  the  soul  is  yet  its  own,  though 
mother  and  God  have  looked  upon  its  secrets! 

Barton  would  have  spoken,  but  his  mother  stopped  him  by 
laying  her  hand  upon  his  head ;  and  looking  full  upon  his  face  with 
an  inefi'able  tenderness,  she  said : 

"  Barton,  tell  me  nothing !  Only  say  that  whenever  there  shall 
be  a  great  fear,  or — or  other  feeling,  when  you  need  to  speak, 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  \lt 

whether  it  bo  of  good  or  evil,  of  victory  or  trouble,  that  you  will 
surely  come  to  the  place  where  you  were  born ;  where  your  head 
lay  in  infancy,  where  you  have  lived  and  loved  freely  until  now  I 
I  do  not  need  to  know  your  thoughts,  nor  your  purposes.  But  you 
may  need  to  tell  them.  You  need  your  mother.  Promise  me,  that 
whenever  your  heart  must  disburden  itself  you  will  come  back  to 
me." 

Inexpressibly  affected  by  a  manner  not  usual  to  his  mother,  a 
certain  loftiness  of  authority,  and  an  exquisite  tenderness,  Barton, 
like  a  brook  pent  up  and  at  length  breaking  through,  poured  out 
his  whole  heart  to  his  mother,  so  freely,  so  fully,  so  easily  that  it 
seemed  more  as  if  he  were  thinking  it  to  himself  than  disclosing  it 
to  another. 

"And  as  I  stood  by  her,  mother,  a  light  seemed  to  shine  out 
from  her,  and  something  not  of  myself  seemed  to  come  upon  me 
with  an  assurance  that  I  might  speak " 

"I  know — I  understand  it  all." 

— "  And  yet,  before  I  could  speak,  a  pain  pierced  me,  a  dark- 
ness rose  inside  of  me — a  horror  of  fear  that  I  was  seeking  to  sacri- 
fice Rose  to  my  own  selfish  life — that  I  had  not  been  called  by  her 
— that  she  stood  in  one  place  and  I  in  another,  and  that  we  could 
never  change." 

'•  All  these  things  are  plain  to  me,  Barton.  God  has  given  you, 
in  part,  your  mother's  nature.  I  have  an  insight  of  melancholy; 
but  you  have  your  father's  judgment,  and  will  control  it.  But  now 
things  were  like  to  have  been  born  out  of  due  time.  You  had  al- 
most followed  the  inspiration  of  your  own  heart,  and  not  the  open- 
ings of  Providence.  Your  business  is  not  this.  Neither  is  her  time 
come.  You  must  bury  and  hide  this  love,  as  seeds  are  hidden  till 
their  spring  time  comes.  Oh,  my  son,  it  is  a  sacred  thing  to  love! 
Be  not  ashamed.  It  is  for  your  life.  But  let  it  be  as  a  light  burn- 
ing in  a  secret  place.  TThen  God  ordains  he  will  bring  it  forth. 
Shall  he  command  the  dayspring  from  on  high  for  this  poor,  sinfnl 
world,  and  not  ordain  your  hours  and  seasons  ?  Beware  of  seeking 
more  than  you  earn.  "With  what  will  you  buy  her  heart?  Rose 
is  many  in  one.  Of  all  that  I  ever  knew  of  womankind  she  is 
alone.  She  comes  slowly  to  womanhood  because  she  brings  with 
her  so  much.  How  have  you  gained  a  right  to  her  ?  Will  yon 
not,  like  the  patriarch,  serve  your  term  of  years?     Will  you  not, 


176  Norwood. 

by  study  and  true  piety,  bring  to  her  by  and  by  a  nature  that  shall 
command,  not  supplicate? " 

The  candle  had  burned  low.  It  flamed  up  and  threw  an  un- 
wonted light  upon  the  chamber.  It  sunk  again  and  went  out. 
Neither  its  presence  nor  its  absence  was  noticed. 

But  after  midnight  a  deep  sleep  was  burying  Barton's  early 
troubles  deeper  than  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

His  mother  saw  the  morning  star  arise.  She  had  come  forth 
before  it. 


■4  *!»s  *^^  r*r  l^'*  *=•■ 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE     FAREWELLS. 

The  earlier  stages  of  cerebral  excitement  qv.cken  the  external 
senses.  Objects  become  more  clear,  sounds  mc  re  significant,  and, 
according  to  the  nature  of  our  own  feelings,  the  exterior  world  is 
sad  or  gay.  But  a  higher  degree  of  excitement  works  toward  rea- 
son and  sentiment,  and  the  mind  is  absorbed  in  its  own  creations. 
Nature  grows  dim,  and  passing  events  seem  like  the  silent  passage 
of  dreams. 

For  all  the  next  day  Barton  saw  sunlight  as  if  it  were  moon- 
light. He  was  busy  in  a  hundred  little  things  in  town  and  at 
home,  preparatory  to  his  departure.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  he 
were  putting  a  gulf  between  himself  and  his  home.  It  is  not 
alone  distance,  but  the  change  of  relations  and  of  occupations 
that  works  a  sense  of  wide  separation.  It  was  not  a  score  of  miles 
to  Amherst,  but  it  seemed  to  Barton  like  putting  the  Atlantic 
Ocean  between  himself  and  the  farm  on  which  he  had  been  reared. 
The  air  seemed  fiiU  of  sad  farewells.  The  well  whose  windlass 
was  so  familiar  to  his  hand,  the  tools  with  which  he  had  labored, 
the  cattle  and  their  stalls,  the  old  threshing-floor  from  which  his 
flail  had  sent  mellow  sounds  through  all  the  neighborhood,  par- 
ticular trees  in  the  orchard,  gates  and  lanes  through  which  he  had 
gone  so  many  hundred  times,  all  of  them  on  the  eve  of  his  going 
away  seemed  to  bo  parts  of  his  life,  and  dimly  brought  back  his 
own  history. "  "' 

The  great  elm  tree  by  the  gate,  where  he  and  Rose  had  stood, 
was,  and  forever  after  would  be,  like  a  consecrated  temple.  Its  choir 
was  all  day  long  singing  in  its  tops,  and  at  half  hours  Barton  found 
himself  under  it  dreaming  and  wondering,  looking  like  one  who  had 
lost  something,  or  found  something,  he  could  not  exactly  tell  which. 

The  old  farmer  neighbors,  who  respected  'Biah  Cathcart,  pass- 
ing on  their  errands  to  and  from  town,  stopped  to  make  inquiries 
or  to  express  their  interest  in  the  young  man. 

Old  Cyrus  Mills  was  driving  past,  on  his  way  to  town,  and 


1*78  Norwood ;  or, 

seeing  Barton  in  the  front  door,  pulled  up.  His  horse  was  always 
in  favor  of  stopping. 

"Mornin' !     So  you're  goin'  to  college  ?  " 

"  Yes,  SU-." 

"When?" 

"In  a  day  or  two." 

"Take  stage?" 

"No,  sir — father's  wagon." 

The  o^  man  was  about  sixty  years  old,  with  small  bones  and 
no  flesh  on  them,  and  for  looks,  like  a  weather-stained  rye-straw 
crooked  into  a  sickle  or  half  a  hoop. 

"My  boy  said  so.  Cost  a  sight  o'  money,  won't  it?  S'pose 
you  mean  to  preach,  don't  you  ?  Most  of  'em  do,  over  to  Am- 
herst. My  boy's  talkin'  'bout  eddication  too.  Shouldn't  wonder 
if  Nicholas  fetched  it  one  of  these  days." 

"Nicholas  is  a  smart  fellow,"  said  Barton.  "He  ought  to 
make  a  good  scholar." 

"Middlin'.  But  not  so  good,  I  expect,  as  his  brother  would  a 
bin — him  that's  gone.  I've  never  felt  exactly  right,  that  I  wouldn't 
let  him  go  to  college.  He  wanted  to  go  awfully,  and  worried  about 
it  a  good  deal.  Mebbe  if  I'd  let  him  go  he  wouldn't  a  strained 
himself  and  got  into  a  decline."  A  juicier  man  would  evidently 
have  shed  a  tear,  but  old  Cyrus  Mills  had  not  a  drop  of  moisture 
in  his  body  to  spare,  and  so  instead  he  winked  nervously  half  a 
dozen  times  and  then  shut  his  eyes  tight. 

With  that  he  commenced  a  series  of  jerks  at  his  horse's  mouth, 
like  one  ringing  a  door-beU.  Evidently  the  bell  was  far  down  in 
the  animal,  for  it  was  only  after  six  or  seven  pulls,  increasing  in 
length  and  emphasis,  that  his  horse  awoke  to  the  consciousness 
that  he  was  called  for,  and  began  to  amble  along  the  dusty  road. 

Barton  sat,  after  dinner,  a  half  hour  by  the  tree,  a  clump  of 
lilacs  hidiag  him  from  passers-by.  A  wagon  with  two  men,  going 
toward  town,  came  to  a  walk  in  front  of  the  house,  and  Barton 
had  the  benefit  of  the  men's  opinion. 

"  Old  'Biah  Cathcart's  got  a  snug  place — owe  any  thing?  " 

"Not's  I  knows.  'Taint  like  him.  Likely  got  money  out 
'tinterest:    '11  need  it  afore  his  boy  gets  through  college." 

"  Oh,  Barton  ?    Yes ;  I've  heerd.    Is  he  one  of  'em?  " 

"  Can't  tell  what  a  boy  is  when  he's  tied  to  his  mother's  apron- 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England.  179 

strings.  Barton  's  good  fellow  enough,  but  a  proud  cuss.  It  takes 
these  proper  fellows  to  raise  the  devil  when  they  get  their  liberty. 
He'll  cut  a  figure  among  the  gals !  " 

"They  say  he's  mighty  sweet  on " 

The  nag  struck  into  a  trot,  and  the  last  of  the  sentence  was  lost. 
Barton's  cheek  -was  scarlet.  He  felt  like  springing  over  the  fence, 
and  dealing  summary  chastisement  to  such  impertinence.  That 
kind  of  trifling  with  his  name  he  was  not  used  to,  and  would  not 
tolerate.  Sit  down,  my  young  friend !  If  you  undertake  to  call 
men's  thoughts  and  tongues  to  account  for  idle  and  gossipping 
talk,  you  will  be  like  a  swallow  that  undertakes  to  clear  the  even- 
ing air  of  all  the  summer  insects  that  fly  in  it. 

Toward  evening,  on  his  way  home  from  town,  Elishe  Townsend 
— familiarly  called  "  Uncle  'Lishe  "—stopped  for  a  moment.  He 
drove  a  big-bellied  mare,  whose  colt  gave  her  a  world  of  trouble 
— wouldn't  keep  right  in  her  sight — would  lag  behind — wouldn't 
answer  when  she  whinnied — would  follow  horses  that  it  didn't  be- 
long to — wouldn't  keep  the  right  road,  but  raced  into  by-ways  and 
lanes — would  canter  off  like  mad  at  every  little  whiffet  of  a  dog 
that  chose  to  run  out  after  it.  The  poor  mare  seemed  anxious  and 
nervous,  till  the  naughty  boy  of  a  colt  cuddled  under  her  very 
neck ;  saying,  by  her  manner,  as  plainly  as  words  could  have  done . 

"  Oh,  dear,  I  never  shall  make  any  thing  out  of  such  a  colt  as 
this !  It  is  a  dreadful  world  for  colts.  Nobody  can  tell  how  a 
mare  feels! " 

Uncle  'Lishe  himself  was  simple,  sensible,  good  and  merry. 
But,  as  every  thing  has  its  contrasts,  so  he  carried  on  the  seat  by 
his  side  a  little  terrier  dog,  that  didn't  laugh,  was  not  merry  nor 
fat,  but  whose  muzzle  bristled  with  a  pepper-and-salt-colored 
beard,  sticking  straight  out  every  way.  Shining  down  among  the 
hairs,  were  two  eyes  that  looked  like  two  hazel  flames.  He  carried 
this  speck  of  a  dog  evidently  to  punctuate  his  sentences ;  for  he 
was  the  most  restless  little  imp  that  ever  jumped  down  into  the 
wagon-bottom  only  for  the  sake  of  jumping  up  >igain  upon  the 
seat.  He  would  start  up  and  put  his  paws  on  the  back  of  the  seat, 
to  see  if  any  body  was  behind.  Perhaps  they  were  before  !— he 
whirled  round  to  see.  K  Uncle  'Lishe  jerked  the  reins,  he  would 
bark.  If  the  old  man  saluted  any  one,  every  hair  on  his  face 
seemed  to  open  up  to  let  out  the  exceedingly  sharp  bark  that  he 


180  Norwood;  OTy 

felt  it  Lis  duty  to  issue.  And  when  his  master  stofjped  to  talk  foi 
a  moment,  he  always  laid  one  hand  on  "Dove" — that  uas  his 
name ! — as  if  he  were  a  pistol,  and  liable  to  do  damage  unless  he 
kept  hold  of  the  lock ! 

"And  so  you're  goin' to  College  Barton?"  at  which  Uncle 
'Lishe  shook  his  sides  with  laughing.  "Don't,  Dove! — there's  a 
good  dog.  Well,  I  allers  thought  so  ;  told  your  mother  them  black 
eyes  wouldn't  allers  hunt  squirrels  and  wood-chucks."  At  which 
quaint  conceit  he  shook  again,  not  boisterously,  but  as  a  large  jar 
of  jelly  shakes,  when  turned  out.  Dove  gave  a  dive  into  the 
wagon,  ran  between  his  master's  legs,  and,  looking  out  fiercely,  he 
sought  to  balance  his  master's  levity  by  the  fierceness  of  his  hair 
and  eyes  and  ears,  all  of  which  in  their  several  ways  were  work- 
ing with  emphasis. 

"Wal,  folks '11  miss  you.  Barton.  Old  farm  '11  miss  you, 
guess.  Do  you  s'pose  there's  room  for  one  o'  my  boys  over  there? 
He's  taken  to  larnin'.  His  mother  thinks  we  ought  to  have  a 
minister."  "Which  idea  sent  trembles  of  silent  laughter  all  over 
him,  while  he  looked  full  at  Barton,  as  if  to  see  whether  he  really 
did  take  in  the  whole  thing  that  he  was  saying. 

"  You  mean  Robert,  I  suppose,"  said  Barton,  relaxing  a  little 
to  the  mood  of  the  owner  of  the  mare  and  the  dog. 

"Yes,  youVe  guessed  it.  P'rhaps  somebody  told  you?  No 
great  secret  though.  Been  to  school  for  a  year  steady.  Payin' 
bills  aU  time,  and  he  airnia'  nothin'.  Be  still.  Dove, — 'tain't  noth- 
in', — do  be  still !  Eaise  a  boy — expense  all  the  way — lam  him 
how  to  work — begin  to  git  somethin'  out  of  him — hush,  Dove ! 
— then  he  ups  and  teUs  you  he  wants  to  go  to  college.  There  'tis ! 
Mother  coaxes — what  aUs  you.  Dove  ? — bills  agin — all  winter — all 
summer — boy's  off — that's  the  last  of  him!"  TThich  tragical 
issue  of  raising  children  seemed  to  Elisha  Townsend  a  perfect 
comedy. 

"Wal,  somebody  must  go  to  college,  you  know.  May  as  well 
be  our  folks  as  any  body  else's.  Who  knows?"  And  the  jelly 
vibrated  again  with  tremulous  mirth.  "Mebbe  he'll  preach,  if  he 
gits  convarted.  Then  his  mother  and  I,  mebbe,  '11  ride  over  tc 
his  parish — see  him  in  the  pulpit — folks  a  lookin'  up  at  him — 
and  he  goin'  it  just  like  Buell.  Won't  it  pay?  Guess 'twill  1 
Anyhow  '11  let  him  try  it." 


Villafje  Life  in  Neio  England.  181 

The  nearest  approach  to  a  line  drawn  between  the  common 
people  and  an  aristocratic  class  in  New  England  is  that  which 
education  furnishes.  And  there  is  almost  a  superstitious  reverence 
for  a  ''''college  education?''  K  a  man  has  been  to  college,  he  has  a 
title.  He  may  be  of  slender  abilities,  he  may  not  succeed  in  his 
business,  but  at  least  he  has  one  claim  to  respect — he  has  been  to 
college.  It  is  like  a  title  in  a  decayed  family.  It  saves  the  pride 
and  ministers  pleasure  to  the  vanity,  long  after  it  has  in  every  other 
respect  become  utterly  useless. 

We  suspect  that  an  examination  would  show  that  a  majority  of 
the  graduates  of  New  England  colleges  were  farmers'  and  me- 
chanics' sons.  Sometimes  it  is  the  youngest  son.  But,  not  unfre- 
quently,  it  is  the  first-born  ;  and,  in  such  cases,  the  reflex  influence 
upon  the  family  itself  is  striking.  A  family  that  has  a  son  in  col- 
lege stands  higher  in  the  neighborhood  from  that  hour.  Every 
child  in  the  family  feels  the  influence.  The  girls  must  have  more 
schooling ;  the  other  boys  catch  the  ambition.  "We  recall  an  in- 
stance, where  out  of  seven  sons  but  one  escaped  the  college  course, 
and  he  after  preparing  for  college  was  stopped  by  sickness. 

Barton,  aside  from  his  own  striking  character,  found  himself 
looked  upon  with  respect,  on  all  sides,  as  a  young  man  of  promise 
— the  heir  of  college  honors.  Every  body  looked  at  him  in  church. 
Dr.  Buell  shook  hands  with  him  after  service,  and  asked  when  he 
would  leave,  and  hoped  to  hear  the  best  things  of  him.  His  fa- 
ther's old  friends  manifested  their  interest  in  him,  in  their  several 
ways.  The  boys  who  had  played  ball  with  him  on  the  green,  or 
who  had  hunted  and  fished  with  him,  were  a  little  proud  that 
their  Barton  was  going  to  college  ! 

Tommy  Taft,  who  was  every  year  more  crumpled  up  with  rheu- 
matism— except  the  wooden  leg,  in  which  he  declared  he  never 
remembered  to  have  had  a  single  twinge  of  the  rheumatics — was 
particularly  triumphant  over  Barton,  and  evidently  regarded  the 
boy's  success  as  in  some  manner  due  to  his  influence. 

"I  knew,  boy — I  alius  know'd  how  'twould  be.  You'll  be  a 
spanker  yet.  If  they've  got  any  scholars  over  there  that  can  run 
faster  than  you  I  should  like  to  see  'em,  that's  all !  Lord,  what  a 
ball  player  I  Excuse  the  swearin'.  Barton.  You  ain't  a  church 
member,  you  know.  I  never  swear  afore  members,  unless  I'hi 
road,  or — or  m  so.    I  don't  believe  there's  a  man  over  there  that 


182  Norwood ;  or, 

can  throw  and  ketcli  like  you ;  and  as  for  battin',  I  never  see  a 
ball  rise  so  like  a  bird  and  sail  off  through  the  air  as  yourn  do. 
Of  course  you'll  take  the  honors.  You  pitch  quoits  to  a  p'int,  and 
you  can  wrestle,  side-holt,  back-hug,  arm's-length,  any  way,  I 
don't  care  which  ;  and  as  for  a  long  pull  at  a  race,  I  guess  your 
breath  wouldn't  give  out  sooner  than  a  blacksmith's  bolluses.  Of 
course  you'll  be  at  the  head  of  'em  all — the  hull  of  'em.  I  don't 
b'lieve  there's  a  chap  there  that  can  climb  as  you  can,  or  straddle 
a  horse  as  well,  or  hold  out  as  heavy  a  sledge  hammer  at  arm's 
length,  or  throw  it  half  as  far,  for  that  matter,  as  you  can !  " 

Barton  could  not  but  smile  at  Tommy's  notions  of  a  student's 
qualifications.  But  if  old  Taft  was  ignorant  of  books  and  college, 
he  was  shrewd  enough  about  human  nature.  He  had  the  art  of 
touching  the  very  marrow  of  people's  thoughts.  He  would  roll  up 
conversation,  apparently  as  a  blind,  and  rattle  away,  half  in  humor 
and  half  in  sheer  impudence,  with  the  minister,  or  the  lawyer,  or 
the  schoolmaster,  with  any  church  member  of  some  pretension,  but 
before  he  had  done  he  would  contrive  to  get  in  a  word  that  went 
to  the  quick  and  lanced  some  secret  tendency,  or  exposed  some 
weakness  which  good  manners  usually  salves  over,  but  which 
Tommy  Taft  delighted  to  expose.  Toward  those  whom  he  adopted 
into  his  confidence  Tommy  was  not  less  acute,  but  he  was  careful 
of  wounding. 

"  And  so,  Barton,  I'm  to  be  left  alone,"  he  began  again — "1 
and  the  "Went^orths,"  he  said,  with  a  sharp  glance  at  Barton, 
quickly  withdrawn.  "  Well,  we'll  take  care  of  one  another.  I'll 
look  after  the  doctor,  and  let  you  know,"  said  Tommy,  lifting  his 
great  beetling  eyebrows  with  a  comical  expression.  "The  fact"  is 
— ^four  years,  you  say?  Well,  four  years  is  a  good  while.  Great 
many  changes.  Folks  grow  a  good  deal,  eh  ?  See  new  faces.  So 
you  may  as  well  hurry  along.  "What  you  goin'  to  do  then  ?  Not 
preach,  are  ye  ?  Should  hate  to  see  you  stiffen  up  so.  Barton. 
Good  thing — very  good  thing,  when  a  man's  made  for  it,  solid  and 
sober.  But  it's  hard  makin'  a  man-o'-war  out  of  a  clipper  ship. 
But  I'm  no  wise  consarned.  It'll  all  steer  along  right.  Of  course, 
it  may  be  necessary.  I've  noticed  that  a  smart  young  minister  is 
apt  to  have  his  pick  and  choice  for  marryin'.  I'd  advise  you  to  go 
to  Congress,  Barton,  or  be  Governor,  or  sQmethin'.  But  then,  if 
it's  necessary  for  all  your  purposes  to  preach,  I  hain't  no  objection." 


Village  Life  in  New  l^ngland.  i83 

And  with  the  last  sentence  he  gave  Barton  another  sharp  look 
that,  in  spite  of  himself,  brought  a  little  color  into  his  cheek. 

Dr.  Wentworth,  to  whom  Barton  was  much  endeared,  went 
aside  from  his  usual  habit,  and  gave  him  some  advice. 

"  Barton,  I  am  sure  of  your  courses.  I  shall  lose  faith  in  hu- 
man natuiVif  you  do  not  hold  an  honorable  career.  You  are  more 
likely  to  break  down  in  health.  You  are  too  fierce  in  pursuit,  des- 
perate in  tenacity  ;  and  you  have  about  knowledge  the  same  ava- 
riciousness  which  one  sees  in  men  in  matters  of  money — an  insatia- 
ble greed  of  more,  to  which  money  is  only  like  fuel  to  fire.  Re- 
member, that  much  of  knowledge  is  growth,  not  accumulation. 
The  life  that  one  is  living  in,  is  the  book  that  men  more  need  to 
know  than  any  other.  Never  outrun  health.  A  broken-down 
scholar  is  hke  a  razor  without  a  handle.  The  finest  edge  on  the 
best  steel  is  beholden  to  the  services  of  homely  horn  for  ability  to 
be  useful.  Keep  an  account  with  your  brain.  Sleep,  food,  air, 
and  exercise,  are  your  best  friends.  Don't  cheat  them,  or  cut  their 
company.  Don't  fall  into  the  vulgar  idea  that  the  mind  is  a  ware- 
house and  education  a  process  of  stuffing  it  full  of  goods.  Don't 
think  your  mind  to  be  a  pick-axe,  either,  with  which  a  student 
delves  like  an  Irishman  digging  for  ore.  If  you  must  have  a  figure, 
call  it  a  sensitive  plate,  on  which  nature  forms  pictures.  The  more 
fine  the  surface  and  sensitive  the  quality,  the  truer  and  better  will 
be  the  knowledge.  Do  not  study  for  ideas  alone,  but  train  for 
condition.  Get  and  keep  a  healthy  brain.  Keep  it  fine.  Train  it 
to  sharp  and  accurate  impressions.  Give  it  lunge  and  vigor.  Make 
it  like  a  mirror,  before  nature,  or  a  daguerrean  plate !  Barton, 
don't  mope.  Be  a  boy  as  long  as  you  live.  Laugh  a  good  deal. 
Frolic  every  day.  Keep  up  high  spirits.  A  low  tone  of  mind  is 
unhealthy.  There's  food  and  medicine  in  nerve.  Quantity  and 
quality  of  nerve  mark  the  distinctions  between  animals  and  between 
men,  from  the  bottom  of  creation  to  the  top.  Is'ow  Barton,  if  you 
come  home  with  your  cheeks  sunken,  and  your  eyes  staring  out 
of  a  hollow  pit,  I  will  disown  you.  Good-bye,  my  dear  fellow. 
God  bless  you,"  said  the  doctor,  at  the  same  time  taking  Barton's 
liand  in  both  of  his,  and  giving  him  a  cordial  adieu,  which  Barton 
felt  with  grateful  warmth  at  his  heart  for  weeks  after. 

Eose  was  never  more  friendly,  never  more  open  and  sister-like, 
than  when  Barton  came  to  say  farewell.  It  was  a  matter  of  muct 
9 


184  Norwood;  or, 

anxiety  \ritli  him.  He  was  not  altogether  sure  whether  he  had 
kept  his  secret  from  Rose  at  her  visit  to  his  father's  house.  He 
thought — he  hoped  that  he  had.  Eose  was  so  honest  and  frank 
that  if  she  had  read  his  heart  she  surely  would  in  some  way  have 
manifested  it.  If  she  should  be  sensitive  and  uneasy,  then  he 
should  infer  that  she  had  learned  the  secret  of  his  heart.  If  she 
should  be  restrained  and  formal,  that  would  indicate  an  effort  to 
hide  her  knowledge.  If  she  were  excessively  gay,  and  whirled 
along  in  conversation  with  unusual  profusion,  he  should  augur  ill 
of  that  sign. 

But  Eose  gave  him  no  occasion  for  anxiety.  She  saw  him  at 
the  front  gate,  and  ran  out  to  meet  him,  as  she  had  always  done, 
throwing  back  from  her  face  the  clustering  golden  brown  curls, 
and  looking  into  his  face  at  once  with  frankness  and  sympathy. 
Nor  did  she  leave  him  to  begin  the  conversation. 

"  Come,  Sir  Collegian,  you  have  saved  your  reputation.  I've 
been  thinking  about  you  ail  day.  The  first  thing  when  I  waked 
this  morning  I  said  to  myself, '  I  wonder  if  that  ridiculous  Barton 
will  think  that  our  visit  the  other  night  was  good-bye  enough? 
If  he  does  not  come  and  spend  a  whole  evening  here  he  shall  not 
be  forgiven.'  " 

"  And  pray,  my  blooming  Eose,  what  was  the  penalty  that  my 
college  sense  has  so  happily  enabled  me  to  escape  ? " 

"Oh,  Sir  Book!  I  had  conjured  every  influence  in  nature.  I 
had  commanded  the  birds  not  to  sing  to  you,  the  fish  not  to  mind 
your  hook,  and  all  the  flowers  to  flout  you.  "When  you  would 
pull  a  honeysuckle  then  a  bee  should  have  stung  you,  and  when 
you  wanted  a  rose  then  a  thorn  should  have  pierced  you.  But  all 
these  dire  things  are  happily  avoided.  Why  didn't  you  bring 
Alice  with  you  ?  She  is  your  very  blossom,  Barton !  Aaron's 
rod  without  a  blossom  was  but  a  stick.  But  with  its  blossom  it 
was  a  rod  of  power  and  beauty  both." 

"  Eeally,  my  complimentary  friend,  you  must  be  content  to- 
night with  only  me,  for  Alice  is  doing  the  last  things  before  the 
eventful  to-moprow,  when  her  knight  and  champion  departs,  and 
she  shall  sit  solitary,  an  Alice  without  a  Barton!  I  am  sure  a 
blossom  without  a  stem  is  as  badly  oft  as  a  stick  without  a  blos- 
som !  You  would  think  that  I  was  a  prince  if  you  saw  how  daintily 
1  am  treated  at  home  I    Only  father  keeps  to  his  old  way.    Ha 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  i85 

goes  on  just  as  regular  as  ever ;  treats  me  as  if  I  were  twelve 
years  old;  gives  me  sound  sentences  and  good  judgments;  holds 
me  up  sharply  to  every  thiug  I  say,  and  asks  my  reasons.  A  good 
professor  was  lost  when  our  farm  got  a  good  farmer,  I'm  thinking." 

Kose  was  already  an  accomplished  musician,  and  it  had  always 
been  Barton's  delight  to  listen  to  her  rendering  of  music,  especially 
Beethoven's.  There  are  in  this  incomparable  master,  the  Shake- 
speare of  music,  those  elements  which  are  sure  to  win  all  who 
have  a  genuine  love  of  nature.  As  there  is  hardly  a  scene  in 
human  life  for  which  you  shall  not  find  some  fit  passage  in  Shake- 
speare, so  there  is  scarcely  a  scene  or  sound  in  nature  for  which 
you  may  not  select  a  strain  in  Beethoven  which  suggests  or  inter- 
prets it. 

Eose  played  Barton's  favorite  pieces,  and  ended  with  the 
sweetest  and  noblest  of  them  all — a  portion  of  Beethoven's  fifth 
symphony,  of  which,  without  exaggeration,  it  may  be  said,  were 
all  other  music  destroyed,  the  germs  of  all  might  be  found  in 
that,  and  the  kingdom  of  sound  be  re-created. 

Then  they  recalled  the  many  scenes  of  their  childhood ;  they 
discoursed  in  merry  mood  of  the  future.  Eose  was  within  a  year 
to  be  gone  from  home,  for  one  or  two  years  at  school.  Then,  if 
the  Doctor  could  arrange  his  business,  he  proposed  to  travel  with 
Rose  and  her  mother  in  Europe,  though  this  might  prove  a  mere 
day-dream ;  and  by  the  time  that  Barton  should  have  completed 
his  college  course,  Eose  would  return,  a  woman  full  of  accomplish- 
ments, and  wise  with  a  world  of  foreign  sights. 

"When  Barton  had  said  good-bye  and  turned  his  steps  home- 
ward, he  was  sure  of  two  things,  the  one,  that  Eose  was  unconscious 
of  his  heart's  secret;  and  the  other,  that  Eose  was  the  star  of 
his  life.  And,  alas !  he  bitterly  felt  that  she  was  lifted  up  so 
far  above  him, — was  so  noble  and  rich  in  nature, — so  sure  to 
command  those  far  more  worthy  of  her  love  than  he  could  ever 
expect  to  be,  that  one  might  almost  as  well  follow  a  star  in  hopes 
of  clasping  it,  as  follow  Eose  through  the  coming  years  in  expecta- 
tion of  winning  her ! 

"T7hat  then?"  said  Barton  to  himself.  "It  is  Eose  or  no 
one !  Should  God  please,  I  shall  have  a  completed  life.  Should 
He  otherwise  ordain,  I  shall  not  be  the  first  man  who  limped 
through  life  striving  to  do  his  duty.     I  will  be  true  to  my  duty 


186  Norwood. 

whatever  comes.  I  will  be  a  man,  and  accomplish  something,^ 
BO  help  me  God !  " 

After  Barton  had  left,  Eose  repaired  to  her  room.  She  sat  in 
her  window  looking  upon  the  checkered  ground,  where  the  leaves 
and  the  moonlight  played  at  lights  and  shadows  with  the  daintiest 
dalliance.  Rose  was  not  a  sentimental  girl,  in  the  ordinary  mean- 
ing of  that  phrase.  She  was  not  accustomed  to  weave  fancy 
scenes  around  her  own  self  and  form  a  centre  to  imaginary  pic- 
tures. Her  life  was  so  full  and  active,  her  whole  nature  was  so 
rounded  and  healthy  that  she  found  satisfaction  in  the  active  use 
of  her  faculties  day  by  day. 

While  ideality  gave  to  every  one  of  her  faculties  the  quality  of 
aspiration,  this  tendency  was  never  followed  by  discontent.  Her 
ideal  life  was  not  an  escape  from  an  uncomfortable  reality.  Her 
real  life  was  full  and  joyous,  and  ideality  was  employed  only  to 
deepen  and  refine  it. 

Young,  ardent,  enthusiastic,  sensitive,  and  sympathetic,  it  may 
seem  impossible  that  she  should  distinctly  know  that  Barton  had 
passed  beyond  the  period  of  simple  friendship  without  experiencing 
a  profound  impression  from  it. 

Yet  so  it  was.  She  felt  for  Barton  an  undisguised  affection. 
She  never  remembered  the  time  when  she  did  not.  She  believed 
that  he  was  firmly  attached  to  her. 

It  would  be  difiicult  to  analyze  the  impression  made  by  the 
revelation  of  the  night  of  the  Elm  Tree.  A  gentle  wonder  pos- 
sessed her,  a  solemn  curiosity  to  kflow  what  his  feeling  was.  She 
had  not  been  wont  to  dream  of  love,  nor  to  think  of  it,  in  its 
romantic  unfoldings.  Every  day  she  revelled  in  the  joys  and 
duties  of  that  day.  Her  heart  slumbered — slumbered  without 
dreams.  jSTothing  had  yet  overshadowed  her  spirit  and  spoken 
from  above,  in  tones  which  rouse  the  sleeping  soul  like  a  resur- 
rection trumpet.  Her  time  had  not  come.  And  so  though  she 
loved  Barton,  it  was  not  with  that  commanding  love  which  fuses 
all  the  feelings,  harmonizes  all  the  faculties,  and  brings  the  whole 
soul  under  the  dominion  of  one  supreme  emotion  ! 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

FKANK   ESEL. 

Like  tlie  sea,  which  never  seems  fuller  by  any  amount  of  rain, 
nor  emptier  by  any  continuance  of  drought,  so  a  city  seems  always 
full,  even  in  summer,  and  only  full  in  winter.  The  people  whom 
you  know  may  bo  gone ;  and  the  city  may  seem  socially  empty 
and  void,  but  never  numerically.  The  crowd  is  always  there, 
surging  along  the  streets,  coming  and  going  with  endless  industries. 
And,  yet,  if  one  follows  the  great  line  of  summer  travel  he  will 
thmk  that  the  great  cities  must  have  emptied  their  contents  into 
cars,  steamboats,  sea-side  hotels,  mountain-houses,  inland  mammoth 
caravansaries  at  fashionable  springs,  and  even  into  the  very  wil- 
derness. 

In  general  this  migrating  column  is  guided  by  one  of  two 
instincts.  The  one  part  is  seeking  a  crowd,  and  the  other  part  is 
seeking  to  get  rid  of  a  crowd.  The  first  seem  to  have  the  majority. 
But  it  is  only  in  appearance.  At  a  few  places,  and  in  great 
numbers,  they  attract  attention,  while  the  far  greater  number, 
dispersed  over  wide  territories,  hidden  in  farm-houses,  or  secluded 
country  towns,  or  re-visiting  homes,  are  not  easily  estimated. 

Commend  me  to  their  example  who  seek  out  places  where  daily 
papers  are  unknown ;  where  the  mail  comes  but  twice  a  week ; 
where  it  is  so  still  every  day  that  people  have  to  make  a  noise  on 
Sunday  to  distinguish  it  from  week-days ;  where,  if  a  wagon  drives 
through  the  town,  people  come  to  the  door  and  wonder  what  has 
happened. 

Commend  me  to  the  wisdom  of  those  notable  and  excellent 
people  who  cool  the  fever  of  city  life  under  the  great  elms  that 
spread  their  patriarchal  arms  about  solitary  farm-houses;  who 
exchange  the  street  for  mountain  streams,  make  bargains  with  the 
brooks,  and  cast  their  cheats  for  trout  rather  than  for  men ! 

Yea,  let  me  abide  with  the  artist  in  fine  scenery,  or  stroll  with 
some  learned  professor,  who  shall  put  uncouth  names  on  fomiliar 
flowers,  and  let  me  know  what  bug  it  was  that  bit  me,  and  what 
bird  sung  to  me.     But,  above  all,  let  me  have  the  best  of  all  com- 


188  Norwood ;  or, 

pany  for  a  thoughtful  man — good  health  within  and  solitude 
without.  Yet  solitude  is  apt  to  hecome  exceedingly  solitary  and 
lonesome,  therefore  it  should  not  be  long  continued.  Let  rare  and 
ripe  friends  dwell  within  reach  ;  for  it  is  solitude  that  gives  zest 
to  society,  and  goodly  company  it  is  that  prepares  you  for  the  joys 
of  solitude.  Alone-ness  is  to  social  life  what  rests  are  in  music. 
Sounds  following  silence  are  always  sweetest. 

The  other  day  I  got  me  to  a  solitary  corner,  where  pine-tre6s, 
maples  and  spruces  had  leagued  against  the  sun,  and  quite  expelled 
him.  There,  upon  a  root  swelling  out  above  the  ground,  I  sat  me 
down,  and,  leaning  against  the  trunk,  I  determined  to  spy  out 
what  things  are  done  in  such  places.  So  still  was  I  that  insects 
thought  me  a  tree,  and  made  a  highway  of  my  limbs.  A  robin, 
whose  near  nest  showed  young  heads,  for  a  time  nervously  hopped 
from  branch  to  branch  near  me,  shrilly  questioning  my  errand. 
But  my  placid  silence  soon  smoothed  down  the  feathers  on 
its  black  head  and  won  its  confidence.  Then  all  birds  chattered 
in  those  short  notes  which  are  employed  for  domestic  purposes, 
and  are  no  more  to  be  confounded  with  their  songs  than  are  men's 
anthems  to  be  deemed  their  common  conversation.  Birds  both 
talk  and  sing.  Nearly  an  hour  I  waited,  and  then  came  what  I 
waited  for — a  wood-thrush — and  perched  his  speckled  breast  right 
over  against  me  in  a  near  tree.  He  did  not  look  in  one  place 
more  than  another,  and  so  I  knew  that  he  believed  himself  alone. 

At  once  he  began  dressing  his  feathers.  He  ran  his  bill  down 
through  his  ash-speckled  breast,  he  probed  the  wings,  and  combed 
out  the  long  coverts.  He  ruffled  up  his  whole  plumage  and  shook 
it  robustly.  Then,  his  solitary  toilet  completed,  he  flew  into  a  tree 
nearer  the  road,  where  he  could  look  out,  but  not  be  seen,  and 
began  his  song.  It  was  neither  warble  nor  continuous  song,  but 
a  dainty  phrasing,  in  single  syllables,  of  such  sweet  and  loving 
thoughts  as  solitude  doth  breed  in  pure  and  tender  natures.  And 
all  this  have  I  rehearsed,  that  I  might  say  that  none  in  life  sing  so 
sweetly  as  they  who,  like  the  wood-thrush,  sit  on  the  twilight 
edge  of  solitude  and  sing  to  the  men  who  pass  by  in  the  sunlight 
outside. 

It  was  this  union  of  seclusion  and  publicity  that  made  Norwood 
a  place  of  favorite  resort,  through  the  summer,  of  artists,  of 
languid  scholars,  and  of  persons  of  quiet  tastes.    There  was  com- 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  189 

pany  for  all  that  sliunned  solitude,  and  solitude  for  all  that  -were 
weary  of  company.  Each  house  was  secluded  from  its  neighbor. 
Yards  and  gardens  full  of  trees  and  shrubbery,  the  streets  lined 
with  venerable  trees,  gave  the  town  at  a  little  distance  the  appear- 
ance of  having  been  built  in  an  orchard  or  a  forest-park.  A  few 
steps  and  you  could  be  alone — a  few  steps  too  would  bring  you 
among  crowds.  Where  else  could  one  watch  the  gentle  conflict 
between  sounds  and  silence  with  such  dreamy  joy? — or  make 
idleness  seem  so  nearly  like  meditation  ? — or  more  nimbly  chase 
the  dreams  of  night  with  even  brighter  day-dreams,  wondering 
every  day  what  has  become  of  the  day  before,  and  each  week 
where  the  week  has  gone,  and  in  autumn  what  has  become  of  the 
summer,  that  trod  so  noiselessly  that  none  knew  how  swift  were 
its  footsteps !  The  town  filled  by  July,  and  was  not  empty  again 
till  late  October. 

There  are  but  two  perfect  months  in  our  year — June  and 
October.  People  from  the  city  usually  arrange  to  miss  both. 
June  is  the  month  of  gorgeous  greens;  October,  the  month  of  all 
colors.  June  has  the  full  beauty  of  youth;  October  has  the 
splendor  of  ripeness.  Both  of  them  are  out-of-door  months.  If 
the  year  has  any  thing  to  tell  you,  listen  now !  If  these  months 
teach  the  heart  nothing,  one  may  well  shut  up  the  book  of  the 
year. 

Three  years  had  Barton  Cathcart  been  gone,  and  had  ceased  to 
be  missed.  Neither  the  sea  nor  society  wiU  keep  open  its  gaps. 
Waters  and  men  fill  every  opening.  His  vacations,  year  by  year, 
returned  him  to  his  friends  the  same,  to  the  town  more  and  more 
another  man.  The  brain  gives  expression  to  the  body.  Barton's 
face  had  become  more  thoughtful.  His  features  were  more 
definite.  Kose  had  been  gone  for  the  most  part  during  the  three 
years. 

Norwood  had  never  been  more  cheering  than  during  this  third 
year  of  Barton's  absence.  It  was  overflowing  with  visitors.  They 
were  nested  in  farm-houses,  in  boarding-houses,  in  hotels.  Some 
came  for  a  few  days — lounged,  fished,  and  departed.  Some  came 
for  the  season.  Children  were  as  plenty  as  flowers.  Picnics  were 
in  vogue.  Rides  and  excursions  occupied  much  time.  The  sober 
Yankee  people  looked  with  a  doubting  eye  upon  the  waste  of  so 
much  precious  time.    But,  as  the  money  spent  went  into  their 


190  Norwood;  or, 

hands,  they  every  year  grew  more  inclined  to  accept  the  swarm 
of  idlers  as  a  Providential  gift. 

This  year  came  Frank  Esel,  a  young  artist.  One  of  his  Boston 
cronies  described  him  thus :  "  Frank  is  a  jjint  of  brown-stout, 
with  a  rich,  creamy  foam  on  it ;  if  you  will  blow  off  the  foam, 
you  will  find  some  drink."  This  figm'e  must  not  prejudice  Frank 
EsePs  temperance  reputation.  He  was  not  a  1)011  mvant,  and  his 
only  intoxication  was  that  of  his  own  excessive  good  spirits.  Of  a 
florid  complexion,  befitting  a  sanguine  temperament,  with  brown 
hair  which  curled  all  over  his  head,  blue  eyes  which  were  a  per- 
petual invitation  to  laugh,  Frank  was  the  best  company  possible. 
Nothing  disturbed  him.  His  good  spirits  foamed  and  sparkled 
over  checks  and  obstacles  that  annoyed  other  men,  as  a  merry 
brook  turns  every  impediment  into  an  occasion  of  bubble  and 
music.  His  resource  of  health  and  hilarity  seemed  inexhaustible. 
He  was,  without  a  particle  of  coquetry,  a  dazzling  ladies'  man; 
and,  what  is  more  remarkable,  Frank,  a  universal  favorite,  receivel 
with  marked  partiality  and  encouraged  by  generous  favor,  was  not 
spoiled  nor  corrupted  into  puppy  conceit.  He  retained  his  honest- 
heartedness  and  all  his  disinterestedness  and  frolic  with  as  little 
harm  from  admiration  as  if  he  had  been  a  bed  of  flowers,  and  did 
not  understand  the  admiration  lavished  on  him.  He  played  pass- 
ably well  upon  the  piano,  and  could  sing  a  serenading  song  to  4he 
guitar  that,  if  the  night  was  bewitching  and  the  listeners  romantic, 
was  accounted  very  well  done. 

If  one  looks  out  upon  ISTew-York  harbor,  after  an  eastern  storm, 
he  will  see  it  covered  with  craft,  that  brood  upon  its  surface  in 
flocks  like  wild  fowl ;  nor  can  the  eye,  at  a  distance,  tell  why  they 
hold  their  places,  swinging  but  a  little  way  with  the  changing 
tide,  facing  the  wind  obstinately  and  refusing  to  be  blown  away. 
Every  one  is  rooted.     The  anchor  is  its  root. 

K  men  are  found  in  life  much  tempted  and  yet  firm  in  prin- 
ciple, there  is  an  anchor  somewhere.  It  may  be  a  sweetheart, 
or  a  sister,  or  a  mother,  or  a  wife,  or  a  father,  or  some  old 
stanch  teacher.  Men  anchor  each  other.  Frank's  anchor  was 
his  mother.  She  was  his  ideal  of  all  excellence,  the  sea  into 
which  his  heart  emptied.  On  the  way  toward  her,  his  heart,  like 
a  copious  river,  might  cherish  islands,  or  branch  and  shoot  out 
into  bayous;    these  were  but  delays  of  that  stream  which  set 


Villa(je  Life  hi  New  Enf/land.  loi 

steadilj  forward  to  his  mother.  She  was  not  only  his  most  inti- 
mate companion,  hut  he  seemed  to  gather  up  in  his  heart  all  those 
aflections  which  are  usually  distributed  under  the  several  heads 
of  son,  lover,  husband.  His  father  had  been  dead  for  several 
years.  lie  was  her  only  child.  The  first  word  on  entering  home 
was  Frank's  call,  "Mother! "  and,  like  a  bird  to  its  mate's  call, 
a  gentle  rustling,  as  of  a  bird  flying  through  leaves,  answered, 
llis  face  was  a  glow  of  fond  admiration.  He  praised  her,  and 
laughed  over  her,  and  flattered  her,  and  danced  about  her,  with 
an  exhilaration  of  joy  that  seemed  never  able  to  tire  itself.  His 
mother  was  slender,  pale,  and  beautiful.  Frank  was  strong  and 
elastic.  He  would  catch  his  mother  in  his  arms,  and  rush  with 
her  nimbly,  as  if  she  were  but  a  blossoming  spray,  into  the  garden, 
to  show  her  some  new  beauty.  Once,  a  friend,  coming  on  invita- 
tion to  tea,  and  to  spend  the  evening,  was  surprised  at  seeing 
Frank  dash  through  the  door  with  his  mother  in  his  arms,  chiding 
him  all  the  way  with  fond  protest  and  proud  acquiescence,  and 
set  her  down  at  his  feet,  blushing  and  a  little  dishevelled,  with  the 
introduction,  "  Horatio,  this  is  my  mother."  She,  with  native 
gi'ace,  extended  her  hand  to  her  surprised  and  amused  guest,  say- 
ing :  "  Excuse  my  spoilt  child,  and  pardon  me — I  must  have  been 
very  delinquent  to  have  brought  up  such  a  turbulent  fellow ; " 
looking  upon  him  all  the  while  with  eyes  beaming  with  love.  It 
was  fortunate  that  her  property  abundantly  sufficed  for  the  wants 
of  both.  He  had  a  world  of  capacities ;  a  talent  for  music,  a 
talent  for  poetry,  a  talent  for  painting,  a  talent  for  landscape- 
gardening,  and  for  architecture.  But  like  a  flower-bed  too  thick- 
ly planted,  his  talents  seemed  to  smother  each  other.  None  of 
them  could  get  ahead.  One  talent  he  lacked,  that  of  making 
money.  But  this  was  compensated  by  a  rare  facility  of  spending 
it.  To  be  sure  he  had  no  bad  habits.  His  tastes  were  not  expen- 
sive. He  never  threw  away  money.  It  only  disappeared!  It 
oozed  out  like  wine  through  a  wormy  stave,  drop  by  drop.  It 
melted  in  his  palm  like  a  snow  crystal,  which  dissolves  while  you 
look  at  it.  It  rose  and  departed  as  the  drops  of  dew  in  the  morn- 
ing do  from  grass  and  leaf.  It  evaporated  as  delicate  perfumes  do, 
and  left  no  trace  behind. 

"  What  Jim  become  of  my  money  ?    I  am  sure  my  pockets  have 
been  picked!     I  have  not  put  my  hands  in  my  pocket  to-day, 

mother.     Somebody  must  have  done  it  for  mc !  " 
9* 


192  Norwood ;  or, 

"  Eeally,  Frank,"  would  answer  his  mother,  in  the  most  genial 
and  humorous  manner,  "  I  think  you  blame  yourself  needlessly. 
I  must  have  forgotten  to  give  you  any  this  morning.  I  am  getting 
old.    I  see  it  by  the  failure  of  my  memory  in  such  matters." 

"  Mother,  how  wicked  you  are !  You  know  that  I  had  twenty- 
five  dollars  only  yesterday,  and  that  I  have  had  no  expenses,  and 
that  there  is  not  a  penny  left,  and  that  I  am  a  bankrupt  and  a 
spendthrift,  and  that  it  is  never  safe  to  give  me  money." 

Sure  there  never  was  such,  gentle  quarrelling  before !  It  was 
an  encounter  like  two  butterflies,  that  go  gracefully  whirling 
round  each  other  in  the  air.  On  the  whole,  Frank's  mother  seem- 
ed so  proud  of  her  gay  and  beautiful  boy,  that  one  would  be  in- 
clined to  think  that,  on  the  whole,  she  was  glad  that  he  could  not 
keep  his  funds.  "When  before  did  the  son  have  all  the  conscience 
and  heap  on  himself  a  wealth  of  blame  and  chiding  ?  and  the 
parent  defend  him  and  palliate  the  faults,  and  justify  every  in- 
firmity ? 

How  many  young  heirs  will  pray  for  such  a  mother,  as  soon 
as  they  have  read  this !     But  then  they  must  be  such  sons ! 

It  was  not  money  alone  that  Frank  found  it  difficult  to  trac^. 
He  could  as  little  tell  what  had  become  of  his  time  and  various 
labors.     Eeturning  home  from  his  studies  he  would  exclaim  : 

"  Really,  it  does  not  seem  as  if  I  had  accomplished  a  thing  this 
whole  week !  " 

And  it  is  but  just  to  him  to  say  that  he  was  usually  right  in 
his  judgment. 

And  yet  every  body  liked  Frank.  Every  body  respected  him. 
He  was  true  and  sound  at  heart.  He  had  excellent  judgment  and 
fine  taste.  But  that  subtle  art  of  continuity  and  combination 
was  lacking.  Bring  a  case  to  him,  and  his  counsel  would  be  excel- 
lent; but  conduct  a  series  of  cases  from  day  to  day,  especially 
his  own,  he  could  not.  He  studied  life  much  as  butterflies  study 
botany — a  little  here,  a  little  there,  daintily,  beautifully,  super- 
ficially. But  his  pure,  fresh,  enthusiastic  love  for  his  mother  was 
the  one  exception.  That  never  varied  nor  changed.  That  was 
the  one  constant  force  of  his  life,  and  held  him  grandly  in  th.e 
Drbit  of  virtuous  manhood. 

Well,  artists  must  go  into  the  country  in  summer,  and  Frank 
was  an  artist.    He  painted,  and   therefore  must   sketch.    Hia 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England.  193 

mother  could  not  be  persuaded  to  leave  home.  She  was  a  flower 
that  would  not  bear  transplanting,  and  must  be  left  to  grow  where 
it  sprouted.  But  him  she  resolutely  sent  away.  His  letters  should 
cheer  her  in  his  absence. 

"  I  shall  comfort  myself  in  thinking,  Frank,  how  much  you  are 
seeing  and  learning.  It  will  not  do  for  a  young  fellow  to  be  tied 
up  at  home.  You  must  push  out  into  the  world  some  time,  and 
you  may  as  well  begin  now." 

And  so  it  was  that  he  came  to  Norwood.  Some  extracts  from 
his  letters  will  give  his  view  of  the  place  and  its  society. 

"  One  disadvantage  of  this  place  I  find  to  be,  that  it  is  too 
generally  beautiful.  It  serves  the  purpose  of  pleasure  rather  than 
of  study.  It  seems  absurd  to  come  all  the  way  to  the  Connecticut 
river  to  study  a  clump  of  grass  or  to  draw  an  elm  tree.  The 
scenery  of  the  valley  is  charming  to  the  eye,  but  diffuse  and  im- 
possible of  representation  by  the  pencil.  However,  I  am  not  con- 
fining myself  to  landscape.  I  am  studying  figures.  I  have  several 
studies  of  cattle  which  good  judges  admire.  I  have  also  a  capital 
barn-yard  scene — hens,  ducks,  &c.  I  have  found  some  most  com- 
ical people,  and  have  taken  lively  sketches  of  them,  which  I  know 
yon  will  like. 

"  Last  week  I  did  my  drawing  with  a  pole.  I  drew  fish — out 
of  the  brook.  This  I  learned  from  some  New  York  artists.  I 
begin  to  understand  metropolitan  art.  A  brandy-flask,  a  fishing- 
rod  and  a  fast  nag  are  the  proper  furniture !  Study?  I  begin  to 
have  new  light  upon  the  joys  of  summer  studies!  I  divide  the 
artists  that  do  study  into  two  classes — those  on  whom  nature  works, 
and  those  that  work  on  nature.  Of  the  former  no  doubt  there  are 
many,  but  I  have  not  yet  met  them.  Of  the  latter  we  have  some 
precious  specimens.  There  is  one  big  fellow  here  whom  I  found 
sitting  before  a  most  charming  view,  busily  at  work  painting  a 
board  fence,  with  a  pig-weed  growing  by  it,  and  talking  about  con- 
science, and  painting  only  '  what  he  sees.'  He  has  been  working 
a  week,  and  several  knot-holes  are  yet  to  be  painted  in  his  fence. 
I  looked  over  his  sketches  last  night.  He  has  one  toad,  a  clump 
of  plantain  leaves,  a  pile  of  wood,  and  a  heap  of  stones.  I  asked 
him  why  h% selected  such  subjects.  He  said  'that  there  could  be 
ao  true  success  without  humility.  An  artist  must  paint  what  he 
sees.     Nothing  in  nature  is  to  be  despised.    He  should  begin  at; 


194/  Norwood;  or, 

the  bottom  and  work  his  way  np.  It  is  man's  arrogance  and 
egotism  that  lead  him  to  disdain  these  lower  forms  of  existence. 
A  conscientious  artist,  if  humble,  would  not  select  only  the  garish 
things  of  nature,  but  stoop  to  her  lowliest  creatures.' 

"I  replied — 'Art  is  not,  like  science,  to  mvestigate  and  re- 
gister all  natural  objects  and  phenomena.  It  attempts  to  work 
out  its  end  solely  by  the  use  of  the  beautiful,  and  the  artist  is  to 
select  only  such  things  as  are  beautiful.'  But  he  would  not  Usten. 
And  so  I  recommended  him  to  try  an  ant-hill,  next,  and  if  he  suc- 
ceeded to  advance  to  a  potato  field.  I  wish  I  had  his  patience 
and  self-denial,  however.  He  is  very  poor,  but  refuses  to  paint 
any  thing  that  will  sell,  for  fear  he  will  sacrifice  his  art.  By  and 
by  hunger  will  drive  him  to  some  other  work." 

*  *  :js  *  *  * 

"  My  dearest  mother,  I  am  a  hero !  All  the  town  says  so.  It 
is  fearful  how  I  am  admii-ed  and  praised !  ily  head  is  turned  with 
compliments  and  my  heart  is  gone  entirely!  Let  me  teU  you :  Day 
before  yesterday  I  was  sauntering  along  the  street,  when  I  heard 
an  outcry.  Looking  down  the  road  I  saw  a  horse  dashing  wildly 
toward  me,  and  a  young  woman,  who  had  entirely  lost  control  of 
him,  sitting  in  the  buggy.  She  looked  like  marble  for  paleness 
And  for  perfect  stillness.  Every  one  seemed  horror-struck.  The 
horse  was  coming  toward  me  at  a  fearful  rate.  To  head  him  off 
was  impossible.  To  catch  him  a  desperate  undertaking.  I  did 
not  stop  to  think.  My  head  was  like  a  globe  of  light.  My  whole 
body  was  a  brain.  I  made  toward  the  horse  in  such  a  way  that  I 
could  grasp  at  his  bridle  from  the  side  as  he  passed.  To  do  this 
firmly  and  without  mistake  was  as  necessary  for  my  safety  as  for 
the  lady's.  I  hardly  can  tell  how  I  succeeded  in  doing  it.  I  only 
know  that  every  step  I  took  I  was  more  and  more  determined 
to  succeed — I  had  no  sense  of  danger.  I  grasped  the  reins  close 
by  the  bit,  and  was  at  first  swung  from  my  feet.  But  my  weight 
checked  a  little  his  speed,  and  with  a  desperate  effort  I  flung  my 
left  aim  about  his  neck,  and  with  my  right  arm  I  bhnded  his  eyes, 
hanging  with  my  whole  weight  upon  his  head.  The  horse  seemed 
staggered  and  bewildered.  Some  one  dashed  past  me  and  cried, 
'Hold  on  to  hhn  a  minute!  "  I  could  not  see  what* he  did,  but 
learned  afterward  that  a  man  named  Hiram  Beers  had  snatched 
the  woman  out  of  the  wagon.     The  horse  began  to  plunge.    I 


Village  Life  in  Neio  Enf/land.  195 

heard  voices  crying  out,  '  Let  him  go— let  him  go  I '  My  strength 
began  to  fail  me.  But  just  as  I  felt  like  giving  way,  a  black 
fellow  came  to  •  my  rescue,  and  soon  seemed  to  subdue  the  horse 
in  a  wonderful  manner. 

"  But  a  great  crowd  had  gathered  about  the  young  woman. 
Just  as  I  came  near  she  came  through  the  opening  people  toward 
me,  as  beautiful  a  creature  as  ever  I  looked  upon— fine  full 
features,  golden  chestnut  hair  (you  see  the  artist  will  stick  out). 
She  came  straight  to  me,  and  said  with  infinite  sweetness  and 
wonderful  solemnity— 'I  thank  you,  sir,  for  my  life— and  mj 
father — '  and  in  uttering  that  name  her  heart  seemed  to  give  way 
and  she  wept  like  a  child. 

"  Everybody  cried.     '  Eose,  step  right  in  here,  and  rest  you  a 
minute,'  cried  one.     'Eose,  let  me  help  you  home,'  said  another. 
Everybody  knew  her  but  me.     Just  then  came  the  parish  minister, 
a  fine,  elderly  man,  who  almost  took  her  up  in  his  arms,  and  lean- 
ing on  him,  with  some  little  help  from  me,  she  reached  home.   She 
would  not  let  me  go.     I  was  struck  with  her  self-command.     Any 
other  girl  that  I  ever   saw  would  have   fainted.       She  seemed 
solemn,  as  one  just  come  out  of  great  danger  :  but  neither  flurried 
nor  discomposed.     Her  father  is  the  chief  physician  in  this  region, 
and  universally  beloved  and  looked  up  to.     He  has  a  grand  head. 
I  should  like  to  paint  it,  as  I  saw  it,  when  he  came  in.     There  was 
a  hundred  years  of  love,  and  gladness,  and  fear,  united  in  that  one 
look.     Every  line  on  his  face  flashed  magnificently.     Her  mother 
—a  fine  woman,  too — folded  the  child  in  her  arms,  without  a 
word,  and  both  seemed  as  if  rapt  in  prayer.     The  doctor  took  me 
with  both  his  hands.     '  Hiram  has  told  me  of  your  noble  courage. 
I  am  your  debtor  for  my  whole  life.     Excuse  us  all  now,  but  I 
shall  see  you  to-night,  and  we  must  know  more  of  you.'     I  need 
not  say  that  I  was  much  touched,  and  scarcely  less  when  Dr.  Buell 
as  I  learned  his  name  to  be,  in  the  most  tender  and  earnest  man- 
ner, laid  his  hands  upon  my  head,  and  said,  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
'  The  blessings  of  this  whole  town,  young  man,  are  yours !  and 
may  the  blessing  of  the  Lord  forever  abide  upon  you.'      If  any 
body  thinks  that  Yankee  people  have  no  hearts,  I  wish  he  could 
have  gone  back  with  me  to  the  hotel.     At  every  door-yard  stood 
the  people — the  women  with  tears  in  their  eyes— and  all  of  them 
stepped  out  to  thank  me,  and  shake  hands.     A  white-faced  man, 


196  Norwood. 

scholarly-looking,  rather  precise  and  genteel — Judge  Bacon  they 
called  him — stepped  out  to  me,  with  a  good  deal  of  excitement. 
'  It  was  very  well  done  of  you,  young  man  ;  a  remarkable  thing ; 
very  remarkable.     It  will  be  a  credit  to  your  whole  life.' 

"  When  I  got  back  to  the  hotel,  Hiram  Beers  was  lecturing 
about  me,  and,  as  soon  as  he  saw  me,  he  stepped  up  : 

'"I  want  to  shake  hands  with  you,  young  man.  I've  seen  a 
good  deal  about  bosses  in  my  day,  but  that  was  about  the  darndest 
thing  yet.  A  hair  more  or  less,  and  you'd  got  all  you  wanted 
yourself.  I  giv  you  up  when  I  saw  you  puttin'  at  his  head.  Says 
I  to  myself,  there's  a  curly  head  gone.  But,  when  you  struck 
him  sideways  and  then  quirled  your  arm  over  his  neck,  I  saw  that 
you  knew  what  you's  about.  I  never  saw  any  thing  cuter.  You've 
done  enough  for  one  day,  I  guess,  and  you  had  better  go  in  and 
git  your  supper.  But  when  you  want  a  horse  to  ride,  young  man, 
jest  call  on  Hiram  Beers.' 

"My  darling  mother,  I  wish  that  you  were  here.  I  am  never 
happy  but  I  wish  for  you.  And  now,  I  am  sure,  you  would  be 
very  happy.    I  shall  write  you  every  day." 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

HOSE    WENTWOKTh's   ART   SCHOOL. 

««  Norwood,  October  10,  1857. 

"A  DISCOVERY,  my  darling  mother! — a  discovery!  We  are 
related !  I  don't  mean  that  you  and  I  are.  You  already  have  a 
suspicion  of  that.  But  Miss  Rose  and  her  mother  are  our  rela- 
tions !     But  let  me  tell  it  in  the  order  of  history. 

"  The  next  morning  after  the  runaway  in  which  Miss  Rose  and 
I  figured,  I  made  my  call  to  inquire  for  her  health ;  and  when  I 
left  I  became  very  anxious  about  my  own — that  is,  the  health  of 
my  heart!  The  Wentworths  live  in  a  grand  old  mansion,  sur- 
rounded with  grander  old  trees.  I'm  going  to  send  you  some 
studies  of  them.  The  front  yard  is  ample,  and  from  the  gate  to 
the  house  it  is  some  sixty  paces.  As  I  w^as  walking  up,  looking 
on  one  side  and  the  other  at  the  fine  flower-border,  and  up  into 
the  tops  of  the  high  hanging  elms,  and  half  thinking  on  the  proper 
things  to  say,  Miss  Rose  herself  appeared  at  the  door,  and  ad- 
vanced to  meet  me,  with  a  cordiality  as  warm  as  if  she  had  known 
me  as  long  as  you  have,  and  with  a  fervor  of  manner  which  I 
know  not  how  to  describe.  I  forgot  to  say  that  Dr.  Wentworth 
called  upon  me  last  night,  and  spent  an  hour  with  me,  and  learned 
all  about  my  family  connections,  so  that  Miss  Rose  was  spared  the 
awkwardness  of  inquiring  who  I  was.  You  used  to  tell  me, 
mother  mine,  that  boys  could  not  understand  how  mothers  felt. 
Now,  O  mother  dear!  allow  me  to  assure  you  that  mothers  can- 
not imagine  how  boys  feel.  For  instance,  how  I  felt  when  a 
noble  woman  of  perfect  self-possession,  with  a  countenance  beam- 
ing with  sympathy,  looked  me  full  in  the  face  with  an  unwavering 
look  of  real  gratitude !  You  know  I  thought  myself  rather  an 
accomplished  ladies'  man  ;  but,  upon  my  word,  it  seemed  to  mo 
for  about  five  minutes  that  I  was  the  girl  and  she  the  man.  She 
was  perfectly  self-possessed  and  I  was  confused.  Eer  manner 
was  not  that  of  a  school-ma'am,  either,  nor  of  a  strong-minded 
woman.  It  was  exquisitely  gentle.  It  was  what  we  call  large,  in 
a  picture.    I  don't  know— she  seemed  to  me  like  a  candle,  in 


198  NoricoocJ ;  or, 

which  her  body  was  only  a  wick,  and  her  spirit,  surrounding  it, 
was  like  the  flame  ;  —or  like  a  flower,  which  is  a  centre,  surrounded 
by  an  atmosphere  of  fragrance.  Do  you  begin  to  see,  mother  ?  If 
not  her,  do  you  see  me  ? — that  I  am  intoxicated, — an  idol-wor- 
shipper?— altogether  given  up  and  gone  in  love?  Don't  be 
alarmed  or  jealous.  I  am,  as  usual,  in  a  trance  of  admiration, 
and  when  the  enthusiasm  abates  a  little,  I  will  let  you  know  what 
my  real  state  is. 

"It  seems  that  Miss  "Wentworth  is  a  bold  and  skilful  driver  of 
horses — that  she  had  gone  on  an  errand  of  charity  to  a  near  manu- 
facturing neighborhood,  and  was  returning  with  this  young  and 
high-spirited  horse.  Just  as  she  entered  the  village  a  peddler's  cart, 
full  of  tin  ware  and  aU  manner  of  trumpery,  had  wandered  off 
and  taken  its  bareboned  horse  along  with  it.  The  animal  was  feed- 
ing, without  regard  to  the  convenience  of  the  wagon,  and  working 
its  way  more  and  more  up  a  very  steep  bank.  Just  as  Eose  came 
past,  the  upper  wheel  mounting  a  stone,  the  cart  came  over  bodily, 
and  down  toward  her  came  the  shining  stream  of  cups,  pans, 
strainers,  cullenders,  graters,  and  the  whole  catalogue  of  Yankee 
notions.  Her  horse  was  thoroughly  scared.  ^Neither  her  voice 
nor  the  reins  could  manage  him.  And,  as  is  usual  with  horses, 
his  fright  grew  with  the  very  speed  at  which  he  fled  from  danger. 
She  laughed  heartily,  as  she  told  it — '  IsTever  was  such  an  onset 
made  upon  flesh  and  blood  before  !  If  my  horse  had  not  done  it 
for  both  of  us,  I  do  believe  that  I  should  have  run  away  myself 
from  such  a  clatter  and  the  sight  of  such  a  motley  mess  of  kitchen 
utensils !  ' 

"Mrs.  Wentworth,  you  should  know,  came  from  Boston,  and 
as  we  were  talking  of  Cambridge  and  of  you,  and  your  maiden 
name,  she  said  that  she  had  cousins  of  the  name  of  Landor,  and  so 
we  fell  to  the  pursuit  of  relationship  ;  and  at  length  it  turned  out 
that  she  was  your  third  cousin.  I  arose  and  made  Miss  Eose  a  low 
bow,  and  begged  her  to  accept  as  a  relation  her  fourth  cousin — 
Frank  Esel ! 

"  It  seems,  too,  on  further  talk,  that  we  have  many  common 
acquaintances  in  and  around  Boston.  She  spent  three  years  there, 
partly  at  Prof.  Agassiz'  school  and  partly  in  the  study  of  music  and 
art.  I  am  charmingly  at  home,  already,  in  Norwood.  I  have 
really  a  kind  of  home,  for  Dr.  and  Mrs.  "Wentworth  invited  me,  with 


Villacje  Life  in  New  England,  109 

the  manner  of  command,  to  make  myself  at  home  with  them.  And 

never  was  the   virtue   of  obedience  more   comely   in   my  eyes. 

Blessings  forever  on  the  tin-peddler,  on  runaway  horses,  and  on  the 

heroines  that  preside  over  such  occasions !  " 

n.  «  *  *  *  *  *.* 

"  October  20t/i. 

"  I  am  going  to  school !  I  have  found  a  real  academy  of  art  I 
Dr.  Wentworth  knows  every  thing.  He  is  like  the  coast  of  Maine 
where  I  sketched  last  summer— it  makes  no  difference  where  you 
come  down  to  the  shore,  it  is  deep  water  at  once.  You  know 
that  I  am  not  veri/  conceited,  just  as  little  as  will  do,  and  yet  he  an 
artist.  But  it  is  not  in  human  nature  not  to  put  on  some  slight 
appearance  of  knowledge ;  and.  wishing  to  inspire  respect  in  Miss 
Rose  for  my  abilities,  I  thought  I  could  surely  venture  in  my  own 
department ! 

"  I  don't  know  how  she  did  it,  but  in  an  hour  I  felt  as  though  I 
were  a  born  fool.  Miss  Rose  has  the  kindest  heart  and  the  most 
truthful  tongue  that  I  ever  met !  She  is  tender  of  every  body's 
feelings ;  yet  no  one  can  be  long  with  her  and  not  see  every  thing 
in  clearer  light,  in  higher  relations,  with  a  more  minute  accuracy  ; 
and  this  advancement  in  one's  own  perceptions  works  in  him  the 
sense  of  his  own  inferiority.  TVhen  I  am  alone,  Nature  seems  to 
me  a  vast  congeries  of  wonderful  things.  But  w^hen  I  am  with 
Miss  Rose,  ISTature  rises  before  me  in  new  aspects — it  has  a  unity, 
a  meaning,  a  fruitfulness  of  sentiment  that  I  never  dreamed  of. 
Does  she  sharpen  my  wits  ?  Or  is  it  that  she  suggests  new  ideas? 
I  don't  know ;  probably  both.  She  knows  every  plant  that  grows 
in  this  region  in  the  same  easy  and  natural  way  that  she  knows  all 
her  neighbors.  She  can  tell  me  the  floral  calendar  of  every  month. 
She  knows  the  structure  of  plants, — vegetable  physiology,  of 
course ;  but,  in  her  way  of  conceiving  things,  plants  have  a  domes- 
tic hfe, — and  I  find  myself,  insensibly,  nnder  her  influence,  regard- 
ing these  groups  of  plants  as  having  a  sort  of  semi-hmnan  life. 
Miss  Rose  speaks  of  the  dispositions  of  various  plants  and  of  their 
private  habits  very  much  in  the  same  way  that  one  would  of  one's 
neighbors.  I  believe  that  she  is  as  familiar  with  birds,  insects, 
and  animals  as  she  is  with  the  vegetable  kingdom. 

"  She  made  a  remark,  yesterday,  that  struck  me. 

"  '  What  it  was  worth  while  for  God  to  create,  and  what  He 


200  Norwood ;  or, 

thinks  of  importance  enougli  to  continue  from  generation  to  gen- 
eration, ought  to  seem  to  intelligent  persons  of  sufficient  impor- 
tance for  them  to  study.' 

"  At  another  time  she  said  : 

"  '  I  hear  people  call  this  natural  world  "  God's  Book  of 
Nature," — which  means,  I  suppose,  the  Bible  of  Nature ;  and  yet 
they  leave  the  greatest  part  of  it  unread.  What  would  be  thought 
of  a  Christian  who  should  leave  four-fifths  of  the  other  book  of 
God  unread,  unlooked  at  ? ' 

"  I  have  ridden  on  horseback  twice  with  Miss  Rose  and  a  party 
of  several  others ;  have  been  at  two  picnics,  one  fishing  excursion, 
and  at  one  sailing  party — if  that  can  be  so  called  where  we  rowed 
all  the  way  and  never  lifted  a  sail.  She  was  the  life  of  the  party. 
No  one  can  be  dull  where  she  is.  She  has  much  humor  and  an 
exuberance  of  spirits,  without  the  slightest  turbulence  or  frivolity. 
Her  lightest  words  and  merriest  have  depth  in  them.  They  are 
like  the  wrinkles  of  wind  and  flashes  of  light  that  run  along  the 
surface  of  deep  water ;  and  yet  she  seems  to  enjoy  in  others  the 
utmost  gayety  and  even  that  frivolity  which  high  spirits  are  apt  to 
produce.  By  the  way,  Miss  Rose  rode  the  very  horse  whose  run- 
ning away  brought  me  to   so  much  happiness.      Good  courage, 

that!" 

******** 

"  October  21st. 

"  Your  letter  of  the  19th  is  now  in  my  hand.  Is  it  not  a  real 
mothers  letter?  Is  it  notwAj  mother's  letter,  such  as  nobody  else 
in  the  world  could  write !  But,  sober  mother,  I  have  misled  you 
in  my  whirling  enthusiasm  for  Miss  Wentworth.  When  will 
you  learn  that  your  boy  is  an  enthusiast — foams  first  and  settles 
afterwards  ?  The  first  week  after  I  met  the  goddess  I  was  like  a 
great  stream  rushing  through  a  narrow  passage,  and  so,  as  you 
may  imagine,  I  was  thoroughly  tumbled.  But  I  am  spread  out  in 
the  meadows  now,  and  am  running  very  tranquil. 

*'  Why,  O  loving  inquisitor !  Rose  Went  worth  is  no  more  for 
me  than  is  the  Queen  of  England!  I  should  as  soon  try  to 
buy  the  Koh-i-noor,  to  wear  in  my  bosom.  I  have  not  taken 
leave  of  my  senses.  I  admire  her  more  than  any  human 
being  that  ever  threw  light  on  my  path ;  but  love  is  another 
thing. 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  201 

"  By  the  way,  I  had  a  comical  time,  a  few  nights  ago.  An  odd 
creature,  Tommy  Taft  byname,  was  standing  at  the  doctor's  yard- 
gate  as  I  came  out.  He  has  a  striking  face,  and  very  singular 
manner ;  both  jolly  and  rude,  and  yet  not  altogether  unpleasing. 

"  '  Good  evening,  sir.     Is  Miss  Kose  at  home  ? ' 

"  '  She  is,'  I  replied. 

"  '  Do  you  know  whether  she's  going  to  Boston  soon  ? ' 

"  '  I  do  not.  I  am  not  apprised  of  Miss  Rose's  future  inten- 
tions.' 

"  *  P'raps  the  young  cap'n's  a  relative  of  the  family  ? ' 

"I  was  a  little  vexed  with  his  manner,  even  more  than  with  his 
direct  questions,  which  fact  ho  saw  before  I  could  speak. 

"  'Massy  on  us,  how  quick  young  folks  take  fire  now-a-days! 
Hope  an  old  fellow  that's  known  the  family  ever  since  there  was 
a  baby  in  it,  can  ask  a  civil  question  about  it.  P'raps  you  don't 
want  questions  asked?     Well,  shouldn't  wonder  !  ' 

"  '  "Who  are  you,'  said  I,  peevishly,  '  that  you  stop  me  here ' 

My  sentence  was  cut  short  by  the  arrival  of  Dr.  TVentworth,  who 
familiarly  addressed  this  queer  jumble  of  wood  and  flesh.  '  Why, 
Tommy,  you're  better  of  your  rheumatism?  Glad  to  see  you  get- 
ting about — but  you  must  take  care  of  this  night  air.  Come  in. 
Rose  has  something  for  Mother  Taft.  She  was  going  over  pres- 
ently with  it.' 

'' '  That's  jest  the  reason  I  shan't  go  in,  doctor  I  And  if  you 
think  it'll  fetch  her  over,  you  may  tell  her  that  Mother  Taft  is 
poorly,  and  that  she  can't  bring  nothin'  into  that  house  that'll  do 
her  half  so  much  good  as  her  own  face.  Have  ye  heerd  any  thing 
from  Barton  Oathcart  lately,  doctor?  How's  he  gittin'  along? 
They  tell  me  he  beats  the  hull  class,  and  is  the  fust  man  there. 
Only  one  year  more,  and  then  he'll  be  home  ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth, 
Doctor,  I'd  give  more  to  see  him  in  ISTorwood  once  more  than  all 
the  scrumptious  city  folks  in  the  land !  " 

"The  doctor  laughed,  bid  Tommy  go  home,  and  passed  in, 
*  Who  is  this  Oathcart,  I  wonder  ? '  I  said  to  myself.  The  next 
afternoon  Miss  Rose  was  sitting  in  the  morning-glory  nook,  as  it 
is  called,  or  rather  she  was  sitting  before  it,  and  working  upon  a 
picture  of  it.  She  has  in  her  portfoho  the  sketches  of  all  the  favor- 
ite points  about  home, — Honey-suckle  Bower ;  The  Green-house  in 
Winter ;  The  Elm  Tree ;  Evergreen  Twilight,  and  a  dozen  others. 


202  Norwood ;  or. 

For  thongli  tlie  doctor's  grounds  and  garden  seem,  in  a  general 
view,  mucli  like  any  other  gentleman's  highly  kept  grounds,  yet  I 
have  learned  from  Miss  Rose  that  each  part  has  something  dis- 
tinctive in  it.  The  doctor  fancies  that  there  are  certain  analogies 
between  plants  and  thoughts  or  sentiments,  and  his  whole  ground 
is  arranged  upon  some  basis  of  mental  philosophy,  which  Miss 
Eose  promises  that  her  father  shall  unfold  to  me. 

"I  am  sure  I  never  saw  such  a  collection  of  Ipomeas  and  Con- 
volvoluses  before,  and  though  this  evening  they  were  shut  up,  all 
except  the  Bona  nox^  which  opens  at  evening  and  closes  in  the 
morning,  she  found  enough  to  do  with  her  pencil  upon  the  leaves 
and  vines.  '  In  the  morning  the  blossoms,  and  at  evening  the  fo- 
liage,' said  she.  '  Of  all  flowers,  this  is,  perhaps,  the  most  remark- 
able in  sentiment — of  all  that  grow  in  our  climate,  at  any  rate.' 

"  '  What  sentiment  do  you  suppose  a  flower  to  have,  Miss  Rose  ? ' 
said  I,  more  to  hear  what  she  would  say  than  J;o  criticise  her  re- 
mark. 

"  'The  sentiment  which  it  naturally  inspires  in  him  that  looks 
on  it.  "What  do  you  think  of  when  you  look  upon  a  trellis  of  morn- 
ing-glories in  full  blossom  ? '  '  Why  I  should  think  they  were  glo- 
rious ! '  'Is  that  all  ?  and  you  an  artist  ? '  '  Why  should  an  artist 
see  any  more  than  any  body  else  that  has  good  eyes  ? ' 

"  '  Then  why  is  he  an  artist  at  all  ?  ISTo  man  has  any  call  to  an 
artist  life  unless  God  has  enabled  him  to  see  in  nature  what  it  is 
not  given  to  common  eyes  to  see.' 

"'But  a  man  cannot  see  what  is  not  to  be  seen.' 

"  'That's  a  blind  man's  reason  for  not  being  a  guide  to  others.' 

"  'But  what  do  you  see.  Miss  Rose,  that  I  do  not? ' 

'"Perhaps  nothing.  I  am  not  an  artist.  You  are.  Many 
think  they  are  artists  because  they  have  facility  in  copying  what 
they  see.  But  this  is  as  if  a  man  should  copy  a  Spanish  poem  in 
beautiful  handwriting,  without  understanding  a  word  of  the  lan- 
guage, and  then  call  himself  a  poet ! ' 

"  I  felt  the  color  come  in  my  face.  A  man  does  not  like  to  bo 
held  up  between  the  finger  and  thumb,  as  if  he  were  a  butterfly, 
not  even  if  the  operator  is  a  beautiful  girl,  and  her  face  fuU  of  quiet 
roguery,  and  her  manner  ever  so  gentle. 

*'I  certainly  did  not  intend  rudeness  in  my  reply,  though  I 
committed  it.     It  seem  eel  for  the  moment  as  if  Miss  Rose  had 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England,  203 

pointed  her  remarks  to  mo  personally  and  disparagingly,  though  a 
moment's  reflection  might  have  satisfied  me  that,  having  never 
seen  any  thing  of  mine  beyond  tlie  merest  sketch,  she  could  not 
have  intended  a  criticism.  But,  for  the  instant,  I  drew  back  from 
the  subject,  and  just  then  my  last  night's  scene  with  Tommy  Taft 
occurring  to  me,  I  inquired  somewhat  abruptly — -Miss  Eose,  who 
is  Barton  Cathcart  ? ' 

"  The  moment  I  had  said  it  I  felt  that  it  looked  like  a  hidden 
question  designed  to  surprise  her  confidence.  If  it  had  been,  it 
would  have  failed  of  its  aim.  She  certainly  looked  surprised,  but 
neither  angry  nor  annoyed.  I  hastened  to  relate  the  scene  of  the 
night  before  with  Tommy  Taft,  which  amused  her  not  a  little.  I 
added : 

"  '  He  watched  me,  very  much  as  a  dog  hangs  round  a  suspi- 
cious character,  determined  to  know  what  he  has  come  for.' 

'•'  Miss  Eose  was  even  more  amused  at  Tommy  Taft's  supposed 
vigilance.  She  went  on  painting ;  a  touch  here,  a  laugh,  another 
touch,  another  laugh.  Then  I  thought  a  certain  sadness  fell  upon 
her  face.  It  was  but  a  transient  shadow.  She  turned  to  me, 
frankly,  and  said : 

"'I  could  wish  that  you  knew  Barton  Cathcart,  and  if  you 
wiU  return  next  summer,  you  shall,  for  he  will  have  graduated 
then,  and  will  be  at  home,  I  presume.  You  could  not  but  like 
him.  He  has  been  my  familiar  friend  from  childhood — a  brother, 
almost  as  much  as  my  own  brothers — tiU  he  left  for  college.  He 
has  grown  much  since  then,  in  every  way,  though  I  have  seen  him 
but  a  little.  He  is  one  of  those  deep  natures  that  it  is  worth  your 
while  to  have  for  a  friend, — a  deep  well,  that  never  dries.' 

"  '  Is  he  good  looking  ? ' 

"  '  Every  body  is  handsome  whom  you  love  and  respect.  But 
Barton  does  not  need  any  such  gloss.  His  figure  is  fine  and  his 
countenance  noble.' 

'"Does  he  talk  well?' 

"  'Father  says  that  the  best  talkers  are  those  who  know  how 
to  be  silent.  Barton  listens  more  than  he  speaks,  but  when  he 
does  speak,  one  is  never  tired  of  hearing  him.' 

"  '  Your  description  is  relishfnl.  Pray  tell  him  that  I  am  com- 
ing again  next  summer  and  on  purpose  to  make  his  acquaintance.' 

"'He  is  a  true  husbandman.     His  friendship  docs   not  reap 


204  Norwood ;  or, 

alone.  It  sows  as  well.  You  are  always  the  richei  for  his  c()in- 
pany.' 

"'I  rather  dread,  these  "improving"  peoi)le — the^e  good 
folks  that  go  round  building  every  body  up.  I  have  an  aunt  Shil- 
lingby,  one  of  the  kindest  hearts  alive,  but  wherever  she  goes  she 
is  bent  upon  "  doing  good,"  and  she  moralizes  and  talks,  and  ad- 
vises and  questions,  and  incessantly  races  with  her  tongue,  till  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  been  travelling  on  a  dusty  road.  I  want  a  brush 
and  towel  to  get  down  to  my  own  flesh  again.' 

"  'Expect  no  lectures  from  Barton  Cathcart.  But  he  has  a 
vital  nature,  peculiarly  stimulating,  but  in  no  wise  demonstrative 
or  noisy.  The  sun  is  no  mechanic  because  it  builds  up  all  the 
world's  growths.  The  winds  are  not  engineers  because  they  urge 
ships  and  mills.  A  man  may  stimulate  your  whole  nature  without 
officious  or  garrulous  habits.' 

"  After  a  moment's  pause  Miss  Eose  turned  to  me  and  said : 

*'  '  Cousin  Frank'— she  had  never  called  me  so  before — '  you  must 
excuse  my  enthusiasm  about  Barton.  TTe  grew  up  like  brother 
and  sister,  although  very  differently  situated  in  life.  He  came  by 
his  noble  nature  both  from  his  father  and  his  mother.  Barton  is 
a  world  too  sensitive  for  his  own  good,  capable  of  being  a  hero, 
and  quite  as  capable  of  becoming  a  fanatic' 

" '  A  fanatic.  Miss  Rose  ?  And  is  a  nature  that  has  the  fanati- 
cal element  in  it  capable  of  heroism  ? ' 

"  '  He  has  the  heroic  element,  because  he  is  strong,  patient, 
capable  of  suffering  without  complaint,  and  because  on  occasion  he 
would  give  everything  in  the  world,  his  life  itself,  for  that  which 
he  loved  or  for  whatever  he  considered  just  and  right.  As  to 
fanaticism,  father  says  that  it  is  the  fermentation  of  strong  natures, 
who,  not  having  outlet  for  their  feelings,  grow  inwardly,  until 
they  mistake  their  own  feelings  and  thoughts  for  outward  realities. 
I  can  easily  imagine  circumstances  in  which  Barton  would  see  the 
whole  world  in  the  color  of  his  own  heart.' 

"  I  do  not  know  why  I  should  dislike  what  Miss  Eose  said  of 
Cathcart — I  do  not.  Yet,  for  some  reason,  I  did  not  take  a  fancy 
to  him.     Perhaps  I  shall  when  I  see  him. 

"  I  returned  to  the  subject  of  Art : 

" '  Miss  Eose,  you  were  speaking  a  little  while  ago  of  that 
which  gave  a  man  the  right  to  call  himself  an  artist.' 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  205 

"  '  I  suppose  leing  an  artist  gives  the  right  to  the  name.  My 
father,  you  must  understand,  is  my  instructor  in  all  my  philoso- 
phy. My  opinions  are  a  pale  reflection  of  his.  He  divides  men  of 
your  calling  into  two  classes — decorators  and  artists ;  and  artists 
again  into  those  that  please  and  those  that  teach.  The  former  paint 
for  the  senses  and  not  for  the  soul.  They  are  copyists  of  nature 
in  her  more  material  aspects.  They  have  no  soul  behind  their  eyes. 
They  see  only  matter,  not  mind,  in  nature.  An  artist  ought  to  see 
grace,  beauty,  tenderness,  and  subtle  fancies  in  nature  which 
common  eyes  fail  to  see ;  and  when  he  reproduces  an  object  it 
should  seem  more  attractive  to  common  eyes  than  the  original  is, 
because  the  artist  has  expressed  in  color  something  more  than 
others  would  have  seen.  Father  says  that  it  is  the  amount  of 
one's  self  in  a  picture  that  determines  whether  it  is  made  by  an 
artist  or  an  artisan.' 

"  'Bravo,  bravo  !  You  shall  give  lectures,  to  convince  ninety- 
nine  in  every  hundred  artists  that  they  have  no  vocation !  "With 
such  views  os  these  before  my  mind,  I  shall  never  try  my  pencil 
again.  What !  Frank  Esel  going  about  to  express  in  his  picture 
what  Nature  did  not  express !  Never  shall  a  young  gentleman  so 
humble  as  I  am  be  so  presumptuous !     I  shall  burn  my  brushes ! ' 

'"It  may  be  all  well  for  you  to  burn  your  brushes,  but  not  for 
such  reasons.  I  do  not  say  that  Nature  does  not  express  all  and 
more  than  Art  will  ever  represent ;  but  one  part  of  her  truth 
Nature  expresses  to  the  senses,  and  another  and  far  higher, 
through  the  senses,  she  expresses  to  the  soul.  It  is  this  second  and 
higher  kind  of  beauty  and  truth  that  an  artist  should  bring  forth 
and  throw  visibly  upon  his  work.  But  I  think  your  raillery  is 
right.  Pray  excuse  me  for  my  lecture  ;  but,  if  it  had  been  my 
father,  Mr.  Artist,  you  would  have  gathered  more  ideas.' 
"  '  And  less  pleasure.' 

"  '  Though  he  would  not  have  let  you  off  in  so  short  a  time.' 
"  'Its  brevity  is  the  only  fault  of  your  discourse.' 
"  'But  there  come  the  girls !  No,  you  must  not  go.  We  three 
young  ladies  have  no  beau  to-night  but  you,  and  you  must  not  deny 
your  services.  Miss  Laura  Bacon  and  Alice  Cathcartcome  with 
their  parents  to  an  informal  tea;  and,  as  every  well-arranged  table 
is  twice  set— for  the  eyes  as  well  as  for  the  palate, — we  shall  draw 
upon  your  skill  for  help,  Sir  Artist ! ' 


206  Norwood ;  or, 

"I  could  not  but  admire  the  grace  of  her  carriage.  You  know 
how  much  I  criticise  the  careless  and  slovenly  way  in  which  young 
ladies  are  permitted  to  carry  themselves.  If  one  had  to  choose  be- 
tween a  fine  and  graceful  carriage  of  one's  person,  and  beauty  of 
face,  I  think  ladies  would  consult  their  interest  by  choosing  tho 
former.  Miss  Rose  is  a  splendid  walker.  Her  body  moves  as  if 
it  were  floated  in  the  air  rather  than  propelled  from  the  ground. 
Yet  you  feel  that  there  is  an  elastic  tread  and  a  firm  hold  upon  \h%. 
ground.  I  have  never  seen  her  move  nervously  or,  indeed,  in  any 
haste.     She  expresses  deliberation,  but  suggests  nimbleness. 

"  TTc  went  to  the  house.  The  tea-table  was  already  spread.  I 
was  sent  to  collect  leaves,  with  special  instructions, — both  green 
leaves  and  colored  ones,  oak-leaves,  chestnut-leaves,  hickory,  and 
liquidamber — the  most  star-like  of  all  leaves.  Of  colored  leaves — 
maple,  yellow  and  scarlet,  the  crimson  of  the  Nyssa^  and  that  glow- 
ing and  brilliant  thing — the  sumach-leaf. 

"  While  I  was  gone,  came  Judge  Bacon  and  his  slightly  stately 
w^ife ;  'Biah  Cathcart  and  his  dark-eyed  wife ;  Dr.  Buell  and  his 
feeble  wife ;  old  Mr.  Edwards  and  his  sister.  Every  one  seemed 
at  home;  all  went  where  they  pleased,  did  as  they  pleased.  But  artist 
I  was  learning  of  Miss  Rose  how  to  adorn  a  table  with  materials 
so  common  as  to  be  within  every  one's  reach,  and  which,  in  the 
end,  were  so  efi'ective  that  I  am  sure  I  never  saw  table  more  charm 
ing  in  my  life. 

"Green  leaves  were  first  pinned  together  by  their  own  stems 
into  a  plat,  and  then  made  into  circular  mats — the  points  of  the 
leaves  well-advanced;  and  upon  each  one  of  these  green  mats 
rested  a  pure  white  china  plate.  Thus  oak-leaves,  hickory-leaves, 
maple  and  liquidamber  alternating,  seemed  sprouting  from  beneath 
every  dish.  A  bowl  had  been  arranged  with  selected  grasses,  and 
the  butter-dish  set  in  it  in  such  a  manner  that  the  golden  butter 
"was  fringed  with  the  grasses  from  which  it  came.  For  the  honey, 
which  was  snow-white  and  taken  from  the  doctor's  own  hives. 
Miss  Rose  had  herself  collected  white  clover-blossoms,  and  ar- 
ranged them  upon  a  green  base  of  red-clover  leaves,  so  that  the 
dainty  comb  seemed  to  rise  up  out  of  the  very  flowers  which  had 
yielded  it. 

"  The  large  silver  waiter  which  contained  the  tea-things  rested 
upon  a  broad  ruffle  of  colored  leaves — yellow  and  scarlet  maple- 


Vllla(je  Life  171  New  En(jla7id.  207 

leaves,  golden-colored  hickory-leaves,  deep  purplish  leaves  of  the 
sweet-gum;  and  they  were  so  arranged  that  the  highest  point  of 
color  was  at  each  end,  and  a  gradation  of  color  tending  aU  the 
way  hack  to  green,  terminated,  iii  the  front,  in  a  real  summer- 
green  tuft  of  leaves.  I  was  never  more  struck  with  the  effects 
which  can  be  produced  by  a  skilful  use  of  mere  foliage,  without 
flowers,  and  I  never  before  felt  how  coarse  are  the  heaps  and  stacks 
of  flowers  which  are  piled  upon  decorated  tables  in  comparison 
with  this  delicate  and  almost  flowerless  use  of  leaves.  It  was  in- 
expensive beauty,  requiring  but  a  few  moments  to  prepare  it,  and 
tendmg  to  connect  social  enjoyment  with  natural  objects  in  a  man- 
ner that  is  characteristic  of  this  whole  household. 

"  While  I  was  busy  with  the  young  ladies,— Miss  Eose  I  have 
described,-Miss  Alice  Cathcart,  a  dark-haired  beauty,  something 
shy  and  silent,-Miss  Mary  Bacon,  a  blonde,  tall,  slender,  glitter^ 
mg,  but  sharp,  positive  and  selfish,— the  latter  quality,  however 
earned  like  a  sword,  in  a  scabbard  of  politeness ;— while,  I  say    I 
was  tearing  myself  away  from  the  gentlemen  and  devoting  myself 
dismterestedly  to  these  three  young  ladies,  the  gentlemen  were  sit- 
tmg  under  the  great  elm  conversing.    This  is  a  wonderful  tree     It 
IS  the  doctor's  temple.     Probably  no  tree  in  the  State  has  heard 
as  much  discourse  as  this  one.    It  was  a  glorious  sunset.     The  air 
was  cahn.     The  whole  atmosphere  was  suffused  with  a  vaporous 
golden  light.    It  was  a  translucent  flood,  and  its  waves  rolled  up- 
ward to  the  very  zenith.    A  strange  glow  fell  upon  all  the  villa-e 
Trees  and  houses  seemed  glorified,  and  were  transfigured.     At  Its 
height,  so  marked  had  this  become,  that  people  were  callino-  to 
each  other  to  come  out  and  see  the  sunset.     We  all  went  fourth 
Miss  Eose  shaded  her  eyes,  and  looked  with  a  solemn  rapture  full 
at  the  sun,  now  tempered  in  the  peculiar  atmosphere  to  a  mildness 
tolerable  to  the  eye.     Miss  Alice  sat  as  if  she  were  fallen  into  a 
trance.     Miss  Bacon  treated  nature  in  an  obliging  way,  as  if  she 
felt  it  proper  to  recognize  the  very  polite  and  agreeable  manner  in 
which  the  sun  was  taking  leave. 

^  ''I  am  strangely  affected  by  Miss  Eose,  as  by  no  other  person 
in  the  world!  I  am  drawn  to  her  irresistibly.  She  is  good,  she 
IS  true,  she  is  simple,  she  is  beautiful,  and  yet  this  fascination  is 
not  love!  She  sobers  me.  I  do  not  feel  the  exhilaration  in  her 
presence  that  I  do  with  others.  Life  seems  deeper;  nature  more 
10 


208  Norwood, 

solemn.  She  has  power  to  stir  my  soul,  even  if  she  does  not  in- 
fluence m  J  heart  I 

"  As  twilight  came  on,  the  gentlemen  were  summoned  to  tea. 
This  old  mansion  seems  made  for  hospitality.  The  very  air  in  it 
seems  to  whisper  to  every  one.  Be  happy.  Except  my  own  darling 
mother,  never  was  so  motherly  a  woman  as  Mrs.  Wentworth.  She 
is  always  genial,  often  gay  and  sometimes  brilliant.  But  in  every 
mood  a  serene  kindness  beams  from  her  face.  Mother,  the  ex- 
pression of  kindness  in  a  rich  nature  is  even  more  beautiful  than 
any  expression  of  intellect !  I  have  put  in  my  note-book :  '  Beauty 
is  of  the  disposition.     Love  is  the  type  of  perfect  beauty.' 

"Every  one  did  what  pleased  him.  No  one  was  pursued  with 
teasing  politeness.  I  wish  I  could  repeat  the  half  of  what  was  said 
during  the  evening  ;  but  it  could  not  be  done.  But  I  have  jotted 
down  in  my  note-book  many  things  that  an  artist  should  remem- 
ber and  investigate. 

"  The  autumn  is  growing  more  gorgeous.  Every  day  is  perfect, 
and  yet  the  next  seems  better !  And  every  day  has  a  secret  joy, 
to  me  more  dear  than  all  the  colors  of  the  trees  express,  that  my 
pleasant  vacation  will  so  soon  end  in  a  yet  more  pleasant  coming 
home !  But  I  can  never  measure  the  unexpected  benefit  of  this 
visit.  I  am  sobered.  A  new  thought  of  life  is  born  in  me.  Should 
I  persevere  in  the  pursuit  of  art,  it  will  be  with  a  better  insight  of 
its  meanings ;  and  if  I  abandon  it,  it  will  be  from  despair  of  reach- 
ing what  I  can  perceive  to  be  a  true  artist's  aim.  My  heart  beats 
quicker  to  think  how  soon  I  shall  see  you.  And  yet, — well,  good- 
bye, and  scarcely  expect  to  hear  from  me  till  you  take  it  from  my 
very  lipsl  " 


CHAPTER  XX\ai. 

A  T^\XK   aVBOUT   ENJOYING    MONEY. 

While  Frank  Esel  and  the  young  ladies  were  pleasantly  pre- 
paring for  tea,  there  were  sitting  or  lying  on  the-  ground,  under 
the  great  elm,  Parson  Buell,  Judge  Bacon,  Mi-.  Edwards,  and  an 
^ccentric  merchant  and  manufacturer,  Mr.  Brett  by  name,  whose 
whole  life  was  pragmatically  benevolent,  and  whose  conscience 
was  always  flying  at  him  and  teasing  him  for  not  being  more 
benevolent. 

Judge  Bacon  opened  upon  Mr.  Brett. 

"  Brett,  have  you  noticed  Dr.  Wentworth's  conservatory  ?  I 
wonder  you  dp  not  add  one  to  your  house.  I  am  sure  you  spend 
too  much  money  on  benevolence.  You  owe  a  little  now  and  then 
to  selfishness.  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  you  live  as  if  you  thought  it 
to  be  your  first  duty  not  to  enjoy  the  wealth  which  a  kind  Provi- 
dence has  sent  you." 

Mr.  Brett  was  a  nervous  man,  and  talked  all  over  when  he  be- 
came interested. 

"  Why,  Judge,  I  should  think  it  was  Mrs.  Brett  talking  if  I  did 
not  see  your  face.  She  troubles  me  day  by  day.  But,  really,  I 
am  not  conscience  free  in  the  matter.  I— I— do  not  dare'spend  on 
myself  while  there  is  so  much  to  be  done  with  money,— so  many 
poor;  so  many  ignorant;  so  many  tenements  to  be  built  and 
families  to  be  regarded,  and  factory  children  to  be  educated ;  and, 
besides,  so  much  to  be  done  for  the  world  abroad  !  " 

"  Mark  the  perfect  man !  Hear  him  talk !  Why,  sir,  if  you 
send  missionaries  to  South  Africa,  it  is  only  fair  that  you  should 
receive  the  Cape-bulbs  in  return ;  if  you  send  Bibles  to  South 
America,  why  not  receive  orchids  in  exchange?  We  have  more 
Bibles  than  we  can  use,  and  they  have  more  plants.  A  fair  and 
legitimate  commerce.  Thus,  we  export  missionaries  and  import 
roses,  and  both  parties  exchange  superfluities  for  objects  of  val- 
ue." 

"Come,  come.  Judge  Bacon,"  said  Parson  Buell,  with  a  grave 
smile,  for  Brett  was  looking  wofully  puzzled  at  the  judge's  way  of 


210  Norwood;  or, 

putting  duty,  "I  wish  we  had  more  men  that  were  unjust  to 
selfishness,  as  you  say  brother  Brett  is." 

"  But,  then,  Keverend  Sir,"  said  Bacon,  in  a  comical,  mocking 
tone,  *'  do  you  not  think  that  he  ought  to  have  a  conscience  in 
the  matter  of  making  benevolence  appear  pinching  and  frugal  to 
unloveliness  ?  One  reason  why  I  don't  become  rich  is  the  fear  that 
I  shall  live  as  austerely  as  brother  Brett  does.  One  might  just 
as  well  be  poor,  as  to  be  rich  and  spend  all  his  money  in  giving  it 
away.  Do  you  really  think,  Brett,  that  you  would  cheat  a  single 
heathen  out  of  a  fan*  chance,  if  you  were  to  put  up  a  green-house, 
hire  a  gardener,  and  live  in  a  little  more  luxurious  way  ?  " 

"You  have  touched  the  very  point,"  said  Brett — ^'■luxury, 
I'm  sure  that  it  is  my  duty  to  provide  my  family  with  the  neces- 
saries of  life  ;  but  luxuries  I  am  not  so  clear  about.  I  never  feel 
happy  when  I  am  persuaded  to  obtain  them.  I  have  my  scruples 
whether  a  Christian  may,  in  the  present  state  of  the  w^orld,  in- 
dulge in  luxuries." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  replied  the  teasing  judge,  afifecting  a  manner  of 
great  concern.  "  Is  that  so,  my  dear  Ascetic  ?  Ton  must  give 
me  leave  to  say  that  I  think  you,  sir,  already  on  the  side  of  self- 
iQdulgence.  Calf-skin  boots,  upon  my  word !  A  beaver  hat ! 
when  a  felt  one  would  equally  weU  shield  your  head,  at  but  a 
quarter  the  expense !  And  that  glaring  violation  of  economy,  a 
broadcloth  coat,  instead  of  linsey-woolsey!  Why,  sir,  I  think 
there  must  be  a  year's  schooling  on  your  person  for  some  poor 
vagabond,  and  yet  you  are  talking  about  your  conscience !  " 

"  Eor  all  that,"  said  Mr.  Brett,  who  smiled  rather  faintly,  as  if 
he  was  not  altogether  sure  but  that  it  might  be  his  duty  to  re- 
trench his  personal  expenses, — "  for  all  that,  I  am  in  doubt  of 
going  any  further.  Have  I  a  right  to  put  so  much  money  into  a 
green-house,  and  to  be  at  the  annual  expense  required  for  a 
gardener,  when  down  at  the  factories  there  is  so  much  to  be  done 
among  the  workmen,  for  schools,  and  clothing,  and  libraries  ?  " 

"  That's  a  fair  question,"  said  BueU,  "  and  I  should  like  to 
hear  yonr  opinion,  gentlemen.  I  confess  that  I  am  puzzled  more 
by  the  practical  application  of  it  than  by  the  principle  itself.  I 
I  have  no  doubt  of  a  Christian  man's  liberty  to  use  his  wealth  for 
his  own  household,  but  how  far,  by  what  rule,  to  limit  it,  I  do 
not  clearly  see." 


Villac/e  Life  in  New  England.  211 

Judge  Bacon,  who  had  the  art  of  being  elegant  in  negligence, 
was  lying  upon  his  side  on  the  ground,  with  his  head  resting  on 
his  left  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  was  playing  nature,  as  ho 
styled  it,  to  a  worm.  Laying  down  a  stick  in  its  way,  the  worm 
mounted  it. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  here  is  my  man,  this  stick  is  natural  law ; 
if  I  turn  it  so,  he  creeps  north  ;  if  so,  east ;  if  so,  south ;  so  that 
whUe  he  thinks  that  he  is  creeping  in  the  line  of  the  stick,  he  is 
veering  to  the  four  points  of  the  compass." 

"  No  matter  about  your  worm,  learned  judge,  solve  the  min- 
ister's practical  problem,"  said  Cathcart. 

"Oh,  gentlemen,  that  I  might  be  troubled,  as  Brett  is,  by 
wealth  that  I  don't  know  how  to  use  I  Brett,  exchange  with  me! 
Give  me  your  factories,  stores,  and  sinful  bonds  and  deposits,  and 
do  you  take  my  library  and  penurious  clients,  and  it  will  refresh 
you  much  to  solve  new  questions  of  finance,  with  which  I  am 
already  familiar." 

The  ex-schoolmaster  brought  back  the  question,  saying  that 
he  thought  no  matter  more  important  than  to  furnish  some  clue 
by  which  a  Christian  man  might  determine  where  Eights  ended 
and  Duty  began,  in  the  use  of  wealth. 

"Not  a  lawful  distinction,"  said  the  judge;  "  all  his  rights  are 
duties,  and  all  his  duties  are  rights." 

""Well,  what  are  both  put  together?  How  much  may  a  man 
use  for  his  own  household,  and  self;  now  largely  may  he  layout 
his  estate,  and  convert  it  to  mere  beauty  instead  of  use?  How 
largely  may  he  store  his  dwelling  with  art-treasures,  and  spread  a 
sumptuous  table  ;  and  yet,  say,  '  None  of  us  liveth  unto  him 
self?'" 

Dr.  "Wentworth,  who  had  listened  as  if  he  heard  not,  now  be- 
gan to  stir,  as  if  he  were  about  to  emerge  from  his  abstractions. 

"My  dear  Doctor,"  said  the  judge,  "don't  start  off  with  your 
speech  yet.  You  see,  gentlemen,  he  has  been  firing  up  for  some  time, 
and  there  will  be  no  more  chance  for  us  if  he  once  begins !  What 
•the  world  of  letters  lost,  "Wentworth,  when  you  chose  medicine ! 
We  have  lost  a  Burke  and  got  only  Dr.  Wentworth!  Let  mo 
deal  witli  Brett,  whose  conscience  is  like  a  spider  on  the  window, 
always  spinning  webs  to  keep  out  the  light.  I  think  a  man  baa 
at  least  the  natural  rights  of  the  animal  kingdom.      If  an  eagle 


212  Norwood;  or, 

has  a  right  to  all  the  feathers  that  can  fairly  grow  on  his  body, 
and  a  sheep  to  all  the  wool  that  can  grow  on  his  skin,  and  a  but- 
terfly to  all  the  colors  on  his  wings,  and  a  bird  to  all  the  music  he 
can  make,  a  man  has  a  right  to  what  property  he  honestly  accu- 
mulates." 

"  Tut,  tut,"  said  Mr.  Edwards,  "you  don't  half  know  your  les- 
son. Eagles  shed  their  feathers,  and  keep  young  by  moulting. 
Sheep  are  sheared  for  their  own  comfort  and  everybody's  conven- 
ience ;  and  birds  sing  for  all  the  town,  as  well  as  for  themselves ; 
while  the  butterfly,  that  piece  of  painted  uselessness,  comes  late 
and  goes  early,  as  if  Kature  had  no  use  for  things  that  did  not 
contribute  to  others'  good.  So,  Judge,  you  must  go  to  the  foot 
of  your  class." 

"  I  am  dumb,  Mr.  Schoolmaster.  Now  let  the  doctor  speak.  I 
am  sure  it  is  not  safe  for  him  or  us  to  restrain  him  longer." 

Notwithstanding  Judge  Bacon's  banter,  the  doctor  seemed  in  no 
hurry  to  express  his  mind,  being  apparently  absorbed  with  a 
favorite  little  dog,  whose  vivacity  and  vitality  seemed  inexhausti- 
ble. 

"  "Why  should  the  doctor  leave  his  companion  for  our  poor  so- 
ciety ? "  said  Bacon. 

"  That  petty  shag  of  a  dog  which  he  amiably  teases  is  not  to  be 
left  unblessed  and  solitary !  Benevolence  will  still  find  ways  of 
conferring  happiness !  That  dog  runs  like  an  eight-day  clock — 
does  he  e'cer  need  winding-up,  Doctor  ? " 

"  I  think,  gentlemen,  the  matter  in  hand  is  far  less  diflicult," 
said  "Wentworth,  "than  it  is  made  to  seem." 

"The  subject  that  is  in  your  hand,  doctor?"  said  the  teasing 
udge. 

"  No  mistake  can  be  greater  than  for  one  to  speak  of  his  fami- 
ly," said  Dr.  Wentworth,  "  as  of  something  separate  from  the  com- 
munity in  which  he  lives.  A  family  bears  to  the  community  the 
relation  which  limbs  and  organs  do  to  the  human  body.  What 
if  a  man  should  have  serious  scruples  whether  he  should  bestow 
food  upon  the  stomach  instead  of  the  whole  body  !  The  family  is 
the  digesting  organ  of  the  body  politic.  The  very  way  to  feed  the 
community  is  to  feed  the  family.  This  is  the  point  of  contact  for 
each  man  with  the  society  in  which  he  lives.  Through  the  fami- 
ly, chiefly,  we  are  to  act  upon  society.     Money  coutribated  there 


Village  Life  in  New  Midland.  21s 

IS  contributed  to  the  whole.  To  bo  sure,  this  is  not  to  exclude 
other  benefactions;  but,  when  you  have  built  churches,  schools 
and  libraries,  established  public  charities,  all  of  which  are  very 
noble  and  necessary,  it  remains  true  that  the  best  gift  which  one 
can  offer  to  the  state  is  the  living  gift  of  virtuous,  intelligent 
and  enterprising  children ! 

"  Nothing  is  more  remote  from  selfishness  than  generous  ex- 
penditure in  building  up  a  home,  and  enriching  it  with  all  that 
shall  make  it  beautiful  without  and  lovely  within.  A  man  who 
builds  a  noble  house  does  it  for  the  whole  neighborhood,  not  for 
himself  alone.  He  who  surrounds  his  children  with  books,  re- 
fines their  thoughts  by  early  familiarity  with  art,  is  training  them 
for  the  State.  In  no  other  way  could  he  spend  so  much  money  so 
usefully  for  the  State.  He  that  actually  rears  good  citizens  pre- 
sents to  the  State  better  properties,  far  nobler,  than  ample  funds 
or  costly  buildings. 

"  A  man  may,  of  course,  be  selfish  in  family  expenditure,  but 
all  such  outlay  corrupts  the  family.  No  expense  can  be  had  which 
really  benefits  the  family,  that,  through  them,  does  not  even  more 
benefit  the  whole  community. 

"  "Why,  gentlemen,  I  settled  that  question  with  this  elm-tree 
long  ago.  I  had  heard  it  sighing  for  some  days,  and  in  the  night 
it  lay  awake  creaking  ^and  groaning ;  and  so  one  day,  as  I  sat 
under  it,  it  stooped  one  of  its  long  branches  near  my  ear  and  made 
me  its  confidant  and  confessor.  It  seems  the  tree  had  fallen  into  a 
moral  difficulty.  *  Here  am  I,  with  my  huge  bulk,  occupying  space 
that  might  serve  for  scores  of  trees ;  and,  when  the  sun  shines,  I 
take  its  whole  glory  on  my  head,  and  nothing  below  can  get  a  fair 
share,  and  my  roots  are  drinking  out  of  the  ground  an  enormous 
supply  of  food  and  moisture,  and  I  am  under  condemnation  for 
this  great  selfishness  of  my  life.'  I  comforted  the  arborescent  pen- 
itent the  best  way  I  could.  '  Every  thing,  my  great  heart,'  said  I, 
'  that  makes  you  large  and  healthy,  makes  this  village  happy. 
Hundreds  sit  down  in  your  shadow ;  this  house,  of  which  you  are 
a  dendral  guardian-angel,  is  blessed  in  your  prosperity ;  weary  la- 
borers stop  and  rest  under  you ;  all  the  village  is  proud  of  your 
beauty ;  sick  people  look  at  you  out  of  their  windows  and  are  com- 
forted. Besides,  how  many  myriads  of  insects  and  how  many 
thousands  of  birds  are  kept  by  you,  and,  in  turn,  disport  themselves 


214  Norwood;  or, 

for  our  happiness !  It  is  true  that  it  takes  a  great  deal  to  keep  you, 
but  you  pay  it  all  back  a  hundred-fold  in  use  and  beauty.'  " 

"Well  done,  poet,"  said  Bacon,  clapping  his  hands,  in  which 
all  joined. 

"  Jotham  could  not  have  mended  your  parable,"  said  the  min- 
ister. 

Edwards  archly  remarked  that  the  tree  was  even  more  person- 
ally useful  than  one  could  imagine,  who  had  not  been  a  school- 
master, and  needed  switches  for  lazy  boys. 

"  Astonishing  what  one  gets  by  good  company,"  said  Judge 
Bacon.  "I  have  lived  all  my  life  without  looking  at  trees  in  the 
light  of  discipline  !  And  what  deception !  I  have  seen  Edwards 
often  walking  and  looking  up  in  a  devout  way.  I  attributed  it  to 
pious  thoughts ;  but  no,  he  was  reflecting  on  switches.  A  school- 
master naturally,  then,  divides  trees  into  flagellant  and  non-flagel- 
lant trees.    Ai-e  elm  switches  the  best,  Edwards?  " 

"  Slightly  too  pliant,"  replied  he,  with  grave  humor.  "  A  per- 
fect switch  should  be  stiff  in  your  hand,  slender,  long,  and  at  the 
end  both  elastic  and  tough.  I  have  never  obtained  the  best  results 
from  apple-trees.  They  are  brittle ;  and  it  is  disappointing  to  rea- 
sonable expectations  to  have  a  whip  break  in  your  hand.  The 
fault  of  most  trees  is.  that  they  fail  to  produce  long,  slender,  and 
tough  branches." 

"Pray,  what  do  you  consider  the  schoolmaster's  best  friend 
among  trees  ?     The  hickory  ?  " 

"  By  no  means.  Only  artificial  rods  are  formed  from  its  sea- 
soned timbers.  The  quince  is,  above  all,  the  proper  shade  tree  for 
school-houses.  The  fruit  is  acerb,  but  the  wood  full  of  sweetness 
to  those  who  need  it.  Indeed,  it  might  be  called  the  boy's  austere 
friend." 

"  I  thought  the  birch  was  the  tree  of  trees  for  schoolmasters. 
All  literature  celebrates  its  virtues.  Indeed,  its  name  has  been  ap- 
propriated to  the  idea  of  discipline." 

"In  country  school-houses  the  birch  may  be  accessible,  but  not 
in  town.  Even  were  it  at  hand,  it  must  yield  to  the  quince  in 
those  searching,  subtle  virtues  which  are  so  wholesome  to  youths 
in  distress." 

"Pray,  Dr.  "Wentworth,"  said  BueU,  "go  on  with  your  re- 
marks.   Your  discourse  needs  an  application." 


Yilla(je  Life  in  New  England.  215 

"  Whatever  expenditure  refines  the  family  and  lifts  it  into  a 
larger  sphere  of  living,  is  really  spent  upon  the  whole  community 
as  "well.  If  no  man  lives  better  than  the  poorest  man,  there  will  bo 
no  leader  in  material  things.  A  community  needs  examples  to  ex- 
cite its  ambition.  A  noble  dwelling  is,  in  part,  the  property  of  all 
who  dwell  near  it.  Fine  grounds  not  only  confer  pleasure  directly 
on  all  who  visit  or  pass  by,  but  they  excite  every  man  of  any  spirit 
to  improve  his  own  grounds.  A  family  of  children  upon  whom 
wealth  has  been  employed  judiciously,  if  they  are  at  all  worthy, 
represent  in  the  community  a  higher  type  of  life  than  can  be  found 
in  poverty.  Fine  dress  may  be  looked  upon  either  as  a  matter  of 
display  or  of  worthy  example.  In  the  latter  aspect,  it  is  a  duty  as 
well  as  a  pleasure.  You  teach  us,  Dr.  Buell,  that  every  thing  which 
makes  the  church  noble  and  beautiful  is  an  honor  to  God.  The 
same  principle  applies  to  the  domestic  household.  Every  element 
that  adds  to  the  pleasure  and  refinement  of  the  family  puts  honor 
and  dignity  upon  the  family  state.  Whoever  makes  home  seem  to 
the  young  dearer  and  more  happy,  is  a  public  benefactor.  ISTot  all 
dissipated  young  men,  of  course,  are  children  brought  up  in  meagre 
economy.  But  it  is  very  certain  that  children  whose  homes  are  not 
interesting  to  them  by  affection,  or  by  attractive  objects,  are  more 
easily  tempted  into  places  and  company  fraught  with  danger." 

"  These  are  weighty  views,"  said  Parson  Buell ;  "  and  though  I 
have  never  hitherto  regarded  the  subject  in  this  light,  nor  indeed 
attempted  to  practise  upon  it,  I  confess  that  I  am  struck  with  your 
views,  and  am  inclined  to  believe  them  correct." 

"Dear,  dear  me!  "  said  Bacon,  "  must  I  begin,  at  my  time  of 
life,  to  adorn  and — what  is  it  ? — dignify — yes,  that  was  the  phrase 
— 'honor  and  dignity.'  Well,  I  shall  at  once  make  out  a  bill  of 
honeysuckles,  roses,  roots  and  bulbs,  and  other  such  elements  of 
virtue ;  for  it  would  ill  become  me,  a  judge,  to  practise  the  im- 
morality of  a  frigid  house — a  barren  yard  and  a  flowerless  gar- 
den?" 

"  Alas !  alas !  "  said  Edwards,  with  affected  sorrow. 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  said  Bacon. 

"  I  only  sighed  for  those  with  whom  you  next  do  business ! 
Generosity  usually  avenges  itself  on  somebody  !  " 

"  Has  it  occurred  to  you,  my  dear  Doctor,"  said  Buell,  "that  New 
England  families  have  been  brought  up  upon  a  stern  pattern,  and 
10* 


216  Norwood ;  OTy 

upon  a  principle  different  from  that  which  you  advocate  ?  Boys 
and  girls  in  former  times  have  had  very  little  time  or  opportunity 
for  the  cultivation  of  taste." 

"Since  the  founding  of  the  Colonies,"  replied  Dr.  "Wcntworth, 
"  there  have  heen  throughout  New  England  what  we  called  leading 
and  influential  families,  that  possessed  wealth,  that  built  fine  man- 
sions like  this  of  mine,  and  lived  in  some  considerable  style.  That 
some  of  these  wealthy  families  have  set  bad  examples,  is  true ;  but, 
as  a  whole,  the  class  have  gone  before  the  times,  powerly  affected 
the  ideas  of  the  whole  community,  given  them  larger  notions  of 
family  life,  and,  if  it  could  only  be  traced,  I  think  you  would  find 
that  the  young  man  who  launched  out  into  the  world  and  became 
wealthy  had  received,  perhaps  unconsciously,  powerful  influence 
from  their  example. 

"  But,  Dr.  Buell,  it  is  not  necessary  that  one  should  be  rich. 
All  that  I  say  is,  that  he  who,  according  to  his  means,  spends  his 
money  in  beautifying  and  refining  his  house,  is  working  for  the 
whole  community  as  much,  and  sometimes  even  more,  than  for  his 
own  family,  and  need  not  charge  himself  with  selfishness." 

"It  is  certainly  not  selfish,"  said  Dr.  Buell,  "to  spend  money 
on  one's  self,  if  thereby  a  higher  influence  is  secured  for  society. 
It  is  upon  that  principle  that  one  is  justified  in  liberal  expenditure 
for  education,  and  even  for  travel,  as  an  eminent  means  of  liberal 
education." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Bacon,  "  I  am  getting  very  tired.  Is  not  tea 
nearly  ready  ?  These  views  are  fearful !  They  will  revolutionize 
New  Engand.  What  a  spending  of  money !  What  ravages  under 
the  name  of  taste !  Well,  I  wash  my  hands  of  such  doctrines !  On 
you,  Dr.  Buell,  and  you,  Wentworth,  and  you,  gentlemen,  if  you  do 
not  protest,  must  rest  the  guilt !  Positively  shocking !  New  Eng- 
land farmers  spending  money  for  beauty !     Whew ! " 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  Judge,"  said  Dr.  Wentworth,  smiling 
quietly,  "  New  England  has  practised  on  these  very  views,  to  a  de- 
gree probably  not-  equalled  in  any  other  part  of  the  globe.  I  do 
not  believe  that  so  large  a  proportion  of  men's  revenue  was  ever 
spent  upon  the  Family  as  in  New  England.  The  idea  of  the  family, 
of  comfort  at  home,  of  respectable  appearance,  of  education  for  all 
the  children,  of  neatness  and  some  sort  of  beauty,  has  nowhere  else 
ever  been  so  high  among  the  whole  body  of  the  common  people. 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  217 

This  is  one  reason  why  tho  Yankee  is  stigmatized  as  stingy.  Ilia 
idea  of  respectability  is  expensive.  Only  sterling  industry  and  stern 
economy  will  enable  him  to  carry  along  so  mnch  as  enters  in  New 
England  into  the  society  idea  of  the  family  1  There  may  be  no 
difference  in  the  external  appearance  of  economy  and  parsimony, 
but  their  interiors  are  as  different  as  honor  and  meanness.  The 
New  England  people  are,  beyond  all  question,  the  most  generous 
and  the  most  liberal,  according  to  their  means,  in  the  world. 
More  money  can  be  raised  there  for  any  great  purpose  of  public 
weal  than  anywhere  else.  Nor  is  New  England  ever  tired  of 
giving.  Schools  in  thousands  over  the  West  and  South,  academies 
in  every  State  where  her  sons  have  emigrated,  churches,  colleges, 
and  all  institutions  of  religion,  from  end  to  end  of  this  continent, 
are  the  witnesses  of  what  men  are  pleased  to  call  the  narrow  spirit 
of  New  England." 

"  Oh,  Wentworth,"  said  Judge  Bacon,  with  a  polite  yawn,  "  1 
had  no  idea  of  starting  you  off  at  such  a  rate  when  I  cleared  my 
skirts  of  your  heresy.  Eather  than  have  you  go  on  at  this  rate,  I 
will  recant — yes,  I  accept  your  views.  Let  me  see:  spending 
money  on  one's  self  is  virtue ;  on  one's  family,  public  benefaction  I 
Indeed,  I  am  already,  I  perceive,  an  excellent  man.  "VThat  services 
I  have  rendered  to  society  in  bringing  up  that  girl  of  mine !  It  ia 
a  delightful  surprise  to  find  that  my  selfishness  has  all  been  virtue! 
Dr.  Buell,  do  you  never  exchange  ? " 

"  Certainly,  often  ;  why  do  you  ask?  " 

"  I  thought,  perhaps,  you  might  sometimes  like  to  ask  "Went- 
worth  here  to  preach.  He  has,  I  think,  a  manner  that  would 
eminently  become  the  pulpit." 

"But,  to  return  to  the  starting-point,  will  you  tell  me  of  what 
practical  use  is  a  conservatory  ? "  said  Brett. 

"  A  very  means  of  grace,"  replied  Judge  Bacon.  "  It  will  cost 
you  smartly  to  buUd  it ;  yet  more  to  stock  it  and  to  keep  it  up. . 
It  will  never  bo  large  enough,  for  you  will  be  always  wanting 
more  things  than  it  can  hold ;  it  will  be  always  too  large,  for  you 
cannot  get  what  things  you  already  have  half  taken  care  of.  You 
will  fight  with  red  spiders  one  week  and  with  aphides  the  next 
and  with  the  white  scale  all  the  time.  Your  water-pipes  will  get 
out  of  order  once  a  month ;  your  gardener  will  be  out  of  order 
every  day.    He  won't  let  you  touch  your  own  things— will  alwaya 


218  Norwood;  or^ 

know  more  than  you  do,  and  have  a  good  excuse  for  not  having 
flowers ;  and,  above  all,  on  the  coldest  night  of  the  year  he  will 
get  drunk,  let  the  fire  down,  and  freeze  up  your  whole  precious 
stock  of  tender  things.  My  dear  Brett,  if  you  stand  in  need  of 
patience — if  you  would  cultivate  long  suflfering — if  you  would 
grow  in  grace  far  faster  than  your  flowers  will  in  health — by  all 
means  get  a  greenhouse.  To-day  you  shall  be  tormented  with 
fumigations  of  tobacco ;  to-morrow  you  shall  be  half  suffocated 
with  fumes  of  sulphur,  and  every  now  and  then,  by  way  of  variety, 
you  will  be  drenched  by  whale-oil  soap-suds  !  " 

All  laughed  at  the  comical  distress  predicted. 

"But,"  said  Brett,  "I  suppose  there  are  faithful  men  and 
gardeners,  and  that  it  is  vvith  a  greenlioiise  as  with  a  store  or 
factory — ^if  a  man  selects  poor  agents,  he  must  expect  shiftless 
work.  K  worse  comes  to  worst,  I  can  perhaps  coax  Jacquin  to 
move  his  shop  up  here,  and  work  in  my  greenhouse." 

"  Who  is  Jacquin,  Brett  ?     One  of  your  factory- village  men  ? " 

"  Yes,  a  shoemaker  with  a  taste  for  every  thing.  Every  day 
he  has  a  new  invention.  He  has  exhausted  the  subject  of  warming 
and  ventilating,  and  he  works  them  out  for  his  own  mere  pleasure. 
Being  very  fond  of  florrers,  he  has  built  himself  a  little  green- 
house, thirty  feet  long,  and  taken  off  ten  feet  for  his  shop  ;  and  he 
has  contrived  a  tea-kettle  of  a  stove,  that,  while  it  heats  water  for 
circulation  through  his  pet  greenhouse,  furnishes  him  heat  for  the 
shop.  He  has  got  together  a  very  tolerable  collection  of  plants, 
and  any  gardener  might  be  proud  ■  to  have  his  stock  in  as  high 
health  as  his." 

"But,  gentlemen,"  said  "Wentworth,  "it  would  be  wrong  to 
let  our  scoffing  judge  corrupt  your  ideas  of  the  comforts  of  a  green- 
house. Let  me  tell  my  experience :  In  the  first  place,  I  did  not 
try  to  make  it  too  large.  I  rejected  all  mere  curiosities,  far-fetched 
and  difficult  of  treatment,  and  contented  myself  with  common 
things  that,  for  reasonable  care,  would  return  a  generous  supply 
of  flowei's.  I  like  common  flowers  best — new  flowers  are  like 
strangers,  that  put  you  upon  your  good  manners  every  moment ; 
common  flowers  are  like  old  friends,  between  whom  and  you  there 
are  a  hundred  associations  and  memories  of  pleasure. 

"  Then,  as  to  the  enjoyment*.  On  a  weary  winter  day,  with  a 
storm  going  on  out  of  doors,  and  snow  blinding  the  air,  and  winds 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  218 

howling  through  the  trees,  open  the  door  into  your  conservatory 
and  behold  summer  is  all  around  you !  Besides,  what  picture  of 
landscape  was  ever  so  charming,  as  to  sit  across  the  room  and  look 
through  the  door  upon  such  green  and  blossoming  vegetation? 
One  hour  pays  for  a  year's  care.  Then,  too,  a  sprig  of  flowers  on 
the  table  in  February,  or  March,  is  a  blessing. 

"  However,  I  think  every  man  that  ever  loved  flowers  knows 
that  the  chief  delight  consists  in  gitinrj  them  away.  Much  as  I 
enjoy  my  garden,  I  confess  lam  more  delighted  with  other  people's 
pleasure  in  it  than  with  my  own.  And  so  that  it  is  well  given,  a 
flower  given  away  is  far  more  enjoyed  than  a  flower  kept.  In  my 
profession,  I  have  had  much  occasion  to  notice  this  matter.  In 
long  and  wearisome  sicknesses,  no  medicine  is  more  beneficial  than 
some  innocent  exhilaration  to  the  patient's  mind.  It  is  the  nerve- 
power  that  cures  after  all.  Whatever  rouses  up  the  brain  pleas- 
antly is  apt  to  do  the  patient  good.  And  I  cai'ry  about  as  many 
flowers,  in  many  places,  as  I  do  pills." 

"  Without  doubt,"  said  Bacon,  "with  equal  safety  to  the  patient." 

"At  any  rate,  a  gentleman  will  find  an  argument  of  benevo- 
lence for  making  a  greenhouse,  which  vrill  fully  neutralize  any 
fear  of  selfishness." 

"  There  goes  the  tea  bell,"  said  the  judge,  afi'ecting  a  joyful 
alacrity,  "  and  here  comes  the  fairest  of  all  messengers.  Miss 
Eose,  good  evening!  You  were  always  an  angel  of  mercy!  Do 
take  your  father  off";  and,  as  we  are  all  faint  with  listening,  I  am 
sure  yon  will  never  again  greet  a  pilgrim  band  so  glad  of  a  little 
refreshment!" 


CHAPTER  XXVm. 

A   NEW   LIFE. 

Frank  Esel  returned  from  his  summer  wanderings,  reveries, 
and  conversations  with  a  divided  heart.  Never  had  he  loved  his 
mother  more  or  hungered  more  for  home.  Yet  there  was  a 
shadow  on  his  brightness.  He  evidently  had  much  to  think  of. 
He  was  more  industrious.  Never  before  had  he  applied  himself 
with  so  serious  a  purpose  to  his  art.  His  young  friends  noticed 
the  change. 

"  Frank,  what's  come  over  you  ? "  said  his  gay,  long-haired, 
much-smoking  friend,  Lewis  Keswick.  "  You  have  taken  to 
drudging  ever  since  you  came  back.  You  don't  seem  like  your- 
self." 

"  But  I  think  I  am  only  just  coming  to  myself." 

"  How's  that  ?  Not  going  to  be  religious,  eh  ?  None  of  that 
sort  of  thing  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly.  In  fact,  I  hardly  know  what  ails  me.  But  it 
seems  as  though  I  had  been  trifling  all  my  life,  and  using  my  art 
to  do  it  with.  Hitherto  I  have  been  painting  playthings  in  a 
life  frolic.  Now  I  only  know  that  I  am  dissatisfied  without 
knowing  how  to  amend." 

"  Thunder  !  What's  got  into  you  ?  I  should  think  you  had 
run  afoul  of  a  minister,  or  stumbled  into  a  church-door  !  " 

"  I  might  do  worse  !  " 

"  Why  you're  going  to  preach,  I'll  bet !  Come,  out  with  it  I 
I'll  join  your  church — I'll  turn  deacon  when  you  become  parson  I 
You  and  I  together  ought  to  run  the  machine  !  " 

"  No  such  good  news.  Lew.  My  reformation  does  not  reach  out- 
side of  my  art.     But,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  don't  see  what  the 

you  and  I  are  painters  for  ?  " 

"  For  ?  What  does  any  body  paint  for  ?  Because  it's  an 
agreeable  way  of  getting  a  living.  It's  genteel ;  light  work  in 
winter,  pleasant  strolls  in  summer,  reasonable  pay,  good  company 
— why,  it's  the  joUiest  kind  of  a  life  !  " 

"  That's  about  it ;  and  I  turn  away  from  it.    It  seems  to  me 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  221 

that  one  cannot  live  an  earnest  life  in  such  a  way.  At  any  rate, 
rye  got  to  find  out  how  to  do  something  more,  or  quit." 

Frank's  mother  perceived  the  difierence  in  her  son's  moods. 
The  change  to  seriousness  was  great.  He  began  to  read  Ruskin's 
works  with  avidity. 

The  scales  were  falling  from  Frank's  eyes.  Little  by  little  the 
great  aims  of  life  were  rising  before  him,  and  asserted  their  full 
power  upon  him.  Then,  his  art  fell  down  into  its  true  place,  and 
became  a  mere  instrument ;  no  longer  was  it  an  end. 

He  began  to  experience  an  earnest  desire  to  be  an  actor, 
through  his  art,  in  the  movements  of  society. 

"  Shall  all  the  struggles  of  man  go  on  and  I  have  no  part  in 
them  ?  Shall  men  emerge  painfully,  before  my  eyes,  from  rude- 
ness, and  I,  ordained  a  priest  of  beauty,  reach  forth  no  hand  to 
help  ? " 

Frank  Esel  looked  back  upon  his  joyous  dalliance  with  art 
in  former  days  with  repugnance.  His  old  portfolios  he  brought 
out  to  burn.  Many  of  his  sketches  he  did  destroy.  But,  while 
in  the  act,  it  occurred  to  him  that  an  occasional  sight  of  the 
things  which  he  once  thought  very  clever  might  be  a  good 
discipline  and  measure  his  progress.  All  those  which  in  the 
days  of  his  blindness  he  had  thought  very  fine,  he  laid  back  into 
portfolios  and  burned  the  rest. 

His  mother  did  not  think  it  prudent  to  question  her  son. 
From  his  summer's  letters  she  knew  that  he  had  been  greatly 
delighted  with  Rose  Wentworth.  Whatever  solicitude  or  curios- 
ity she  may  have  felt  to  know  the  real  state  of  his  heart,  she  did 
not  deem  it  proper  to  be  inquisitive. 

If  indeed  Frank  could  have  formed  a  connection  with  Dr. 
Wentworth's  family,  she  would  have  esteemed  her  son,  and  her- 
self, most  fortunate.  That  something  had  greatly  influenced  her 
son,  was  too  plain  to  be  missed  even  by  the  dimmest  eye.  But 
what  it  was  she  could  not  divine.  On  the  one  hand,  there  was 
a  sobriety  tinged  with  sadness — the  rising  within  him  of  new 
forces, — a  persistence  and  industry  in  which,  hitherto,  he  had 
been  signally  deficient,  but  which  now  became  a  marked  feature 
of  his  life.  She  hardly  knew  her  own  son.  His  tenderness  for 
her  was  if  any  thing  greater  than  before.  Now  and  then  his  old 
boisterousness  of  glee  would  break  out  again  and  he  would  frolio 


222  Norwood ;  or, 

with  her  in  a  whirl  of  gayety  almost  delirious.  But  such  seasons 
grew  rare.  He  seemed  more  and  more  like  one  fuU  of  some 
inward  and  controlling  pui*pose,  toward  which  he  was  turning 
all  the  forces  of  his  life. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  sj)oke  of  Rose  with  the  utmost  frank- 
ness. Scarcely  a  day  passed  that  some  word  of  hers  was  not 
repeated.  This  did  not  seem  compatible  with  the  shyness  of 
beginning  love. 

One  day  his  mother  ventured  to  say : 

"  Frank,  it  seems  to  me  that  Rose  Wentworth  is  your  model^ 
and  the  very  arbiter  of  your  opinions.  She  must  be  a  remark- 
able young  woman." 

With  no  disturbance  of  manner  Frank  replied  ingenuously  : 

"  I  do  not  think  that  I  owe  so  much  to  what  Miss  Rose  said 
as  to  what  she  was  herself." 

"  You  mean  that  she  drew  you  to  her  by  the  charms  of  her 
person  more  than  by  her  conversation  ?  " 

"  No,  not  that.  I  was  thinking  of  the  influence  which  I  have 
derived  from  that  family,  in  my  own  art.  What  Dr.  Wentworth 
and  his  family  said  was  certainly  more  instructive  to  me  than 
any  thing  I  had  ever  heard  until  then.  It  was  he  that  urged  me 
to  study  Ruskin.  We  were  sitting  on  the  door-step  one  evening, 
and  Mss  Rose  was  questioning  her  father  about  some  statement 
of  Raskin's  that  seemed  extravagant.     He  replied  : 

"  '  It  is  extravagant,  my  dear.  Ruskin  is  full  of  wildness, 
and  tangles  liin'iself  up  with  himself  like  a  vine  twisting  on  itself. 
You  read  Ruskin  just  as  you  explore  a  region,  finding  many 
treasures  and  much  tbat  you  avoid.  He  has  his  brier  thickets, 
his  contorted  trees,  his  muddy  morasses.  But,  taken  as  a  whole, 
the  landscape  is  rich  and  grand.  Ruskin  is  like  a  forest,  on 
whose  edges  and  in  whose  depths  are  many  noxious  plants — but 
these  bear  no  proportion  to  the  magnitude  of  the  woods,  the 
grandeur  of  the  trees,  and  the  sublimity,  in  winter  and  summer, 
of  the  music  which  the  wind  draws  from  their  boughs  and  tops.' 

"  Then,  turning  to  me,  he  said  : 

"  '  Have  you  studied  Ruskin  ? ' 

"  I  replied — '  I  have  read  portions — extracts — from  his  works.' 

"  After  a  pause,  he  said  in  a  very  gentle  way,  in  an  undertone, 
but  earnestly — '  My  young  friend,  Ruskin  is  not  to  be  read  in 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England.  223 

extracts — nor  simply  read  either.  Y:)u  ought  to  take  him  as  an 
infection.  He  should  throw  you  into  a  fever.  The  whole  system 
should  be  pervaded  by  it.  He  is  like  those  diseases  which 
renovate  the  system.  Do  not  try  to  check  it.  Let  it  run  its  full 
period.  Afterward  you  will  recover  well ;  you  will  throw  off 
much.  You  will  retain,  perhaps,  little.  But,  your  whole  con- 
stitution will  be  changed.  You  will  observe  differently,  think 
diflerently,  reason  differently,  all  the  rest  of  your  life.' 

"  '  But,  father,'  said  Rose,  *  is  it  not  a  pity  that  one  so  good 
should  not  be  better.' 

"  '  Certainly  it  is.  What  then  ?  We  are  glad  to  gather  thirty 
bushels  of  wheat  from  an  acre  of  ground,  but  there  were  two 
tons  of  straw  and  chaff  requii-ed  to  grow  the  wheat.  Would 
you  have  a  man  all  grain?  Yet,  worshipping  is  natural;  and 
our  first  drift,  when  one  affects  us  well,  is  to  begin  shaping  him 
in  our  thoughts  to  an  ideal  perfectness.  Then  comes  the  shock 
of  disclosure.  Every  body  is  imperfect;  and  strong  natures, 
strong  enough  to  overturn  old  errors,  and  fight  great  battles,  are 
likely  to  be  too  strong  to  walk  safely  in  harness  and  drag  our 
phaetons  and  chaises  ! ' " 

Frank  had  been  led  along  by  his  reminiscences,  till  he  forgot 
the  point  he  had  started  for.  After  a  moment's  silence  he  started 
up. 

"  Oh,  mother,  I  forgot  to  say  the  only  thing  I  meant  to — That 
which  I  most  felt  in  the  Wentworths  was  the  intimate  relation- 
ship and  personal  sympathy  which  existed  between  them  and 
nature.  Her  father  has  brought  Miss  Rose  up  to  feel  that  all  of 
nature  is,  literally,  but  a  way  which  God  has  of  making  known  to 
us  his  feelings,  tastes  and  thoughts.  It  was  so  from  her  infancy, 
that  sounds,  colors,  forms,  phenomena,  did  not  stand  for  mere 
science,  but  suggested  a  living  presence.  It  was  unconscious. 
Others  went  to  nature.  She  dwelt  in  it  always.  I  had  never 
before  met  with  such  deep  insight,  such  a  pure  love,  such  reverent 
admiration,  such  fulness  and  richness  of  knowledge,  in  a  young 
person,  too,  most  accomplished  and  attractive." 

"I  should  have  thought,  Frank,  that  such  charms  would  have 
been  irresistible." 

His  only  reply  was  : 

"  Too  unequal — too  unequal." 


224  Norwood, 

The  winter  rolled  away  speedily.  Frank  Esel  was  never  so 
little  pleased  with  the  result  of  his  work.  He  had  never  labored 
so  hard.  But  men  beginning  new  courses  are  like  ploughed  mead- 
ows. The  roughness  and  waste  are  indispensable  precursors  of 
the  new  sward.  Frank  never  had  advanced  so  far,  and  yet  never 
seemed  to  himself  to  have  moved  so  little.  But  as  this  was  his 
appointed  life-work,  he  came  out  of  repeated  discouragements 
with  renewed  courage,  and  kept  bravely  on. 

Already  Spring  had  supplanted  Winter,  and  now  Summer 
was  fulfilling  the  tender  prophecies  of  Spring.  It  was  full  time 
for  him  to  leave  the  city.  But  this  year  his  mother  would  go 
with  him ;  and  early  in  July,  Frank,  in  over  measure  of  joy, 
found  himself  again  in  Norwood,  and  among  friends  that  he  had 
learned  to  regard  as  his  benefactors. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

LEAVING     COLLEGE. 

Barton's  four  years  were  ended.  The  senior  vacation  had 
come  and  passed.  He  had  won  the  first  honors  of  his  class,  and 
there  was  not  a  member  of  the  class — not  even  the  two  who  had 
most  nearly  been  his  rivals — that  did  not  heartily  accord  to  him 
the  first  rank.  He  was  not  simply  first  as  a  student,  but  as  a 
good  fellow.  None  led  him  in  athletic  exercises.  In  a  certain 
degree  he  was  accessible,  familiar,  and  most  gay  and  social ;  yet 
it  was  with  a  reserve  that  showed  that  he  did  not  carry  all  his 
nature  on  his  sleeve. 

He  was  one  of  the  men  whom  close  study  had  not  invalided. 
He  was,  if  possible,  more  vigorous  and  elastic  than  when  he 
entered  college.  When  he  returned  to  take  the  honors  of  his 
class  at  Commencement,  it  was  agreed  by  every  young  lady  of 
taste  that  a  finer  form  and  nobler  face  had  never  been  seen  in 
those  streets. 

His  townsmen  were  rightly  proud  of  Barton's  distinction. 
His  father  was  universally  respected.  Barton  himself  was 
popular.  His  intimate  friends  were  among  the  most  influential 
citizens.  All  Norwood  looked  forward  this  year  to  the  Com- 
mencement-day, and  it  seemed  as  if  the  town  itself  was  about  to 
go  over  to  Amherst  on  the  occasion. 

Tommy  Taft,  too,  was  to  go  I  This  was  Dr.  Wentworth's 
arrangement.  Nor  had  he  ever  done  a  kinder  thing.  To  go  to 
Amherst  and  see  his  boy.  Barton,  receive  the  first  honors,  was  a 
glimpse  of  paradise  !  What  these  honors  were  to  be  he  had  not 
the  slightest  idea.  He  was  in  much  uncertainty  as  to  the  nature 
of  a  college.  Was  it  a  sort  of  factory  ?  The  distant  buildings, 
which  he  had  often  looked  at  through  his  spy-glass, — a  relic  of 
his  seafaring  life — might  easUy  be  mistaken  for  mills.  Did  they 
drill  boys  there,  as  on  shipboard  ?  or  what  on  earth  did  they  do  ? 
When  Barton  explaiaed  their  studies  and  recitations,  Tommy 
looked  wise  and  nodded  his  head  knowingly,  but  it  is  doubtful 
if  he  had  any  very  luminous  ideas  on  the  subject. 


226  Norwood ;  or, 

The  Commencement-day  proper  was  on  Wednesday,  but  there 
were  services  on  Tuesday  which  Dr.  Wentworth  wished  to  hear, 
and  duties  which,  as  a  Trustee,  he  had  to  perform,  which  required 
him  to  go  over  on  Tuesday.  Tommy  Taft  was  to  come  over  on 
Wednesday  in  an  early  conveyance  arranged  for  this  occasion. 

The  morning  came.  Rose  and  her  mother  were  ready.  The 
doctor  would  let  his  own  horses  rest,  and  Hiram  Beers  was  to 
come  with  a  stylish  team  and  open  carriage. 

He  came  promptly  upon  appointment.  The  boys  cheered  liim 
as  he  left  the  stable.  His  deep  chestnut- colored  Morgan  horses — 
matched  to  a  hair, — and,  what  is  more  rare,  matched  in  gait  and 
spirit, — came  out  of  the  yard  on  tip-toe.  They  did  not  rear,  nor 
run  sideways,  nor  kick. 

"  That  would  do  under  saddle,"  said  Hiram ;  "  but  when  the 
harness  is  put  on,  sech  things  is  immoralities  in  horses.  Why, 
them  nags  is  well  brought  up.  They  are  jest  like  good  boys 
goin'  to  meetin'  on  Sabbath-day ;  they  don't  play,  though  they 
may  giggle  a  little." 

Down  the  street  went  Hiram,  looking  neither  to  the  right  or 
left,  though  every  soul,  right  and  left,  was  looking  at  him.  Do 
you  suppose  he  didn't  feel  it  ? 

"  Wal,"  said  Tommy  to  him,  as  Hiram  was  loosening  one 
strap,  drawing  another  a  hole  tighter,  dressing  a  lock  of  hair 
under  the  head-piece  to  tassel  below  the  eyes,  and  tucking  up  his 
pets  generally — "  wal,  Hiram,  you've  done  it  this  time." 

"  Of  course  I  have.  Tommy.    Why  not  ?  " 

"  You've  got  a  pretty  pair  of  gals  there, — a  pretty  pair  as 
ever  I  laid  eyes  on.  A  fellow  might  be  proud  of  bein'  captain  in 
such  a  consarn." 

"  Wal,  suppose  I  am  proud.  Tommy.  What  may  a  fellow  be 
proud  of,  if  he  mayn't  be  proud  when  he's  got  sech  a  team  as 
that  afore  him,  and  sech  folks  behind  him  as  I'm  goin'  to  drive  ? 
I  tell  you  Wentworth's  a  whole  team,  and  Ms  wife's  a  woman,  I 
tell  ye  !  and  Rose,"  said  Hiram,  slaiDping  his  leg  in  a  kind  of 
ecstasy — "  Rose  is — well,  she's  enough  to  make  a  feller  cross 
'cause  he  ain't  young  and  handsome  and  rich,  and  she  in  love 
with  him  !  I  tell  you.  Tommy,  I'm  out  for  a  day  of  it.  And  it's 
my  opinion  that  Solomon,  in  all  his  glory,  never  went  over  tc 
Commencement  rigged  out  like  this." 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  227 

The  conversation  was  cut  short  by  the  an-ival  of  the  CatlicartS: 
Dr.  Buell  and  Judge  Bacon  wej-e  to  go  over,  and  Mr.  Brett,  ]\Ir. 
and  !Mrs.  Templeton,  and  several  families  besides.  This  year  all 
Norwood  felt  complimented  that  one  of  its  boys  was  to  carry  off 
the  honors. 

Hiram  took  the  lead.  Not  a  smile  was  on  his  face.  Hia 
small  eyes  flashed  out  from  under  his  projecting  eyebrows  with 
uncommon  brightness,  and  his  good  spirits  showed  themselves 
in  endless  speeches  to  his  horses ;  in  salutations  to  every  body 
that  he  met,  whether  he  knew  them  or  not ;  in  a  neat  touch  of 
his  whip  on  a  dog  that  ran  out  to  salute  the  company ;  in  twirl- 
ing the  lash  round  the  neck  of  a  goose  that  stood  pensively  look- 
ing at  the  road  full  of  people,  and  dragging  her  several  yards, 
saying : 

"  Come  along ;  don't  squawk ;  lots  of  your  sort  been  to  col- 
lege afore  you." 

They  soon  came  to  the  bridge  across  the  Connecticut.  Hiram 
must  have  a  word  with  the  woman  who  took  toll.  She  was  some 
sixty  years  old,  of  sandy  complexion,  with  a  thin  and  hard  face ; 
her  large  spectacles,  mounted  on  the  top  of  her  head,  looked,  as 
Hiram  said,  "  like  the  dormer  windows  in  the  roof  of  the  doctor's 
house." 

"  I^Iiss  PalfiT,  have  you  seen  a  man  come  across  here  this 
momin' — a  rather  big  man — a  little  cast  in  one  eye — looks  as 
though  he  was  winkin'  at  you  all  the  time — red  hair,  wears  it 
long — and  has  a  red  handkerchief  round  his  neck  ?  Kides  on  a 
gray  horse — well,  something  of  the  size  of  Cathcart's  yonder  ? " 

"  A  man  with  red  hair  and  handkerchief?  " 

"  Yes." 

."  On  a  gray  horse  ?  " 

"  Yes — with  a  long  tail." 

"  Let  me  see — Polly  ! — here,  Polly  I — have  you  seen  a  man 
this  mornin'  comin'  across,  with  red  hair  ?  "  Hiram  struck  in — 
"  With  red  hair,  and  white-tail  horse  ?  " 

"  About  what  time  ?  " 

"  How  do  I  know  ?  That's  what  I  want  to  find  out.  He  had 
a  porkmanty  behind  him,  and  a  green  umbrella." 

"  Wal,  I  guess  he  han't  come  along  yet.  Shall  I  tell  him  any 
thing  if  he  comes  ?  " 


228  Norwood ;  or,  i 

"  Yes ;  tell  Mm  that  I  think  he  had  better  stoi^,  when  he  gits 
where  he  wants  to  go  to." 

And  with  that  he  gave  a  sharp  cluck  or  sort  of  throat-whistle, 
which  every  horse  understands,  and  in  a  moment  disappeared 
in  the  covered  bridge.  The  woman  looked  after  him  with  the 
slightest  possible  look  of  humorous  vexation. 

"  Go  'long,  you  old  fool !  I  don't  believe  he's  expectin'  any 
body.  WeU,  I  shall  learn  one  of  these  days  not  to  believe  a 
word  Hiram  says.  Might  a  known  he  was  quizzin' — shouldn't 
wonder  if  he  died  laughin',  and  cracked  jokes  at  his  own 
funeral ! " 

"  Hiram,"  said  Dr.  Wentworth,  "  who  is  this  man  you  inquired 
for  ? " 

"  Well,  sir,  when  I  find  out,  I'll  let  you  know.  A  long  bridge 
to  walk  over.  Doctor  ?  " 

"  Do  people  always  mind  the  law,  and  keep  upon  a  walk  ?  " 

"  That  depends.  When  the  boys  are  on  a  spree,  and  have 
had  a  little  suthin',  I  aUus  raises  a  trot  about  here :  they  thinks 
the  bridge  too  long.  But  when  a  feller's  along  with  his  gal,  he 
alius  thinks  the  bridge  too  short ;  and  he's  particular  about  keep- 
in'  the  law.  Only  last  week  I  was  about  here,  and  I  heerd  a 
sort  of  smack  behind  me,  and  the  horses  thought  I  was  chirrupin' 
for  'em  to  go  on,  and  started  off.  But  I  cooled  'em  down  and 
began  to  whistle  like,  so  that  you  couldn't  hear  any  little  sound. 
The  fact  is,  Doctor,  young  folks  will  be  young  folks,  and  I  never 
was  one  of  them  as  wanted  to  larf  at  'em.  Let  'em  have  their 
time.  I  think  it  rather  beautiful  like  to  see  young  folks  take  to 
each  other.  The  Lord  knows  they'U  have  trouble  enough  afore 
they  get  through  livin'  with  each  other,  and  it  would  be  a  shame 
to  spile  the  beginnin',  when  it's  all  sweet  and  pretty  like. 

"  No,"  said  Hiram,  virtuously  straightening  up  ;  "  when  Zeke 
Lash  driv  over  one  day,  and  interrupted  some  little  cooin'  and 
billin'  that  he  had  no  business  with,  and  I  heard  him  tellin'  of  it 
in  the  stable — '  You're  a  darned  fool,'  sez  I,  '  and  if  it  had  been 
any  of  my  folks,  I'd  made  you  taste  the  horsewhip,  every  inch  of 
it,  from  the  tip  of  the  lash  to  the  butt  end.  I'd  as  soon  throw 
stones  at  the  birds  whirlin'  and  kissin'  in  the  air.  When  they 
are  old,  and  we're  used  to  'em,  I  don't  object  to  throw  a  stone  or 
two  at  a  robin.  But  any  feller  that  would  do  it  when  they  fust 
come,  he's  a  mean  cuss  I " 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England.  229 

But  other  business  soon  diverted  Hiram's  attention.  After 
leaving  the  bridge,  and  while  he  was  driving  at  an  easy  trot, 
there  came  up  behind  him  a  span  of  horses,  driven  by  Zeke  Lash, 
who  held  out  in  Norwood  that  no  man  could  equal  him  in  the 
management  of  horses.  Watching  his  chance,  he  dashed  bj 
Hiram.  Without  turning  his  head,  just  as  he  slid  past  him, 
Zeke  looked  at  Hiram  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  with  a  glance 
which  pierced  him,  as  if  it  had  been  a  sting. 

Hiram  changed  his  tobacco  from  the  left  to  the  right  side  of 
his  mouth  and  chewed  it  with  uncommon  energy.  But  in  no 
other  way  did  he  show  that  he  felt  himself  ill  used. 

"  Who  is  that,  Hiram,  that  drives  such  a  fine  team  ? "  said 
Dr.  Wentworth. 

"It's  Zeke  Lash.  He  and  Overman  have  set  up  a  new 
stable." 

"  What  sort  of  a  fellow  is  he  ?  I've  seen  him  about  the  streets 
a  good  deal  lately." 

"  Wal,  he's  cute.  There's  nobody  else  that  can  touch  him 
with  a  ten-foot  pole  in  pickin'  out  horses.  As  for  tendin'  and 
drivin',  he's  a  perfect  revelation — a  new  dispensation,  miracles 
and  all.    At  any  rate,  that's  his  own  opinion  about  it." 

"  And  do  you  think  so  too,  Hiram  ? " 

"  I  have  my  own  opinion.  He's  cunnin'  enough,  that's  sar- 
tain.  You  never  know  what  he'll  do.  He's  like  my  old  Tiger. 
He'U  be  good-natured  for  weeks,  and  some  day,  when  you  ain't 
thinkin'  on't,  he'll  give  you  a  lift  with  his  heel  and  land  you 
t'other  side  of  the  bam.  But  it's  not  my  way  to  talk  about  him. 
Mebbe  he'll  keep  ahead  of  me  all  the  way  to  Amherst.  He's  got 
a  light  wagon,  and  only  two  in  it,  and  I'm  drivin'  five.  Never 
mind." 

As  they  drew  near  to  the  village  the  road  inclined  upward. 
Hiram  had  kept  well  up  behind,  and  forced  Zeke  to  trot  up  hiU 
steadily.  Just  as  they  came  to  the  street,  where  a  wider  track 
gave  him  opportimity,  Hiram  gave  a  low  hiss,  which  acted  on 
his  horses  like  fire  on  powder.  Hitherto  their  trot  had  been  gay, 
nimble  and  graceful,  with  short  and  springy  steps.  At  Hiram's 
signal  they  instantly  let  out  a  long  reaching  pace,  crouching 
down  nearer  the  ground  ;  and  swinging  with  a  freer  action,  they 
caught  Zeke's  team,  that  now  had  gone  into  a  thundering  pace, 


230  Nonoood ;  or, 

held  it  for  a  moment,  just  to  make  sure  tliat  it  was  doing  all  it 
could,  and  that  all  was  fair,  and  then  with  a  spendid  rush  they 
swept  away  from  them  and  rolled  back  the  clouds  of  dust  in 
their  faces. 

The  whole  thing  was  so  sudden  that  Dr.  Wentworth  had  no 
time  to  protest  against  coming  into  town  at  such  a  rate.  Rose, 
excited  with  the  race,  was  even  more  delighted  with  the  humor 
of  the  whole  thing — with  Hiram's  characteristic  shrewdness  and  at 
her  father's  ludicrous  position.  The  boys  cheered,  and  not  a  few 
judges  of  horses  nodded  as  they  went  past,  as  much  as  to  say : 

"  That'll  do,  Hiram  ! "  "  I  guess  that  will  do,"  said  Hiram  to 
his  nags.  "  We'll  save  up  the  rest  till  next  time.  Whoa !  come 
down,  beauties, — come,  come,  childen — don't  be  agitated,"  said 
Hiram,  in  his  blandest  tones ;  "  remember  where  you  are,  boys  ! 
Whoa  !  that's  enough  !  nicely  done,  ponies  I  " 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  Hiram,  turning  slightly  toward  the  doctor, 
"  these  horses  are  jest  as  near  human  as  is  good  for  'em.  A  good 
horse  has  sense  jest  as  much  as  a  man  has ;  and  he's  proud  too, 
and  he  loves  to  be  praised,  and  he  knows  when  you  treat  him 
with  respect.  A  good  horse  has  the  best  pints  of  a  man  without 
his  failin's." 

"  What  do  you  think  becomes  of  horses,  Hiram,  when  they 
die  ?  "  said  Rose. 

^'  Wal,  Mss  Rose,  it's  my  opinion  that  there's  use  for  horses 
hereafter,  and  that  you'll  find  there's  a  horse-heaven.  There's 
Scriptm-e  for  that,  too." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Rose,  a  little  surprised  at  these  confident  asser- 
tions.   "  What  Scripture  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why  in  the  book  of  Revelations  !  Don't  it  give  an  account 
of  a  white  horse,  and  a  red  horse,  and  black  horses,  and  gray 
horses  ?  I've  allers  s'posed  that  when  it  said  Death  rode  on  a 
pale  horse,  it  must  have  been  gray,  'cause  it  had  mentioned  white 
once  already.  In  the  ninth  chapter,  too,  it  says  there  was  an 
army  of  two  hundred  thousand  horsemen.  Now  I  should  like 
to  Jjnow  where  they  got  so  many  horses  in  heaven,  if  none  of  'em 
that  die  off  here  go  there  ?  It's  my  opinion  that  a  good  horse  's 
a  darned  sight  likelier  to  go  to  heaven  than  a  bad  man  !  " 

With  this  Hiram  rounded  up  with  a  driver's  flourish  before 
the  house  at  which  the  doctor  and  his  party  had  taken  rooms. 


Village  Life  in  N210  England.  231 

Already  the  town  was  astir  with  excitement.  Commence- 
ment-week is  the  one  week  of  the  year  that  every  family,  from  the 
liighest  to  the  lowest,  feels  alike.  Commencement-day  is  the 
rival  of  Thanksgiving-day.  New  England  has  always  been 
economical  of  holidays.  Christmas  she  threw  away  with  indig- 
nant emphasis,  as  stained  and  spattered  with  Papal  superstition. 
The  only  two  festivals  were  Thanksgiving-day  and  Fast-day — 
the  last  to  put  in  the  seed  with,  and  the  former  to  celebrate  the 
year's  harvest.  New  England  never  made  provision  for  amuse- 
ments. 

Amusements  have  for  ages,  in  Europe,  been  the  bribes  which 
governments  threw  to  the  people  for  their  political  rights. 
Fiddles  were  cheaper  than  ballot-boxes.  Kings,  formerly,  would 
pay  liberally  to  amuse,  but  nothing  to  instruct.  The  old 
Puritan,  regarding  games  and  amusements  as  poisonous  flowers, 
whose  odor  bewitched  the  senses  and  stupefied  manhood, 
abhorred  them.  It  was  not  a  hatred  of  pleasure,  but  of  the 
seductive  purposes  to  which  it  had  been  cunningly  put. 

It  was  the  practical  philosophy  of  New  England  that  a  free 
and  intelligent  people,  thrifty  in  business,  managing  their  own 
matters,  and  zealously  occupied  in  building  up  the  common- 
wealth, had  excitement  enough  and  variety  of  interest  enough  in 
their  normal  affairs,  and  that  earnest  men  did  not  need,  like 
children,  to  be  fed  on  frolic  and  amusement.  This  view  was 
carried  to  an  extreme.  But  it  was  a  reaction  from  a  use  of 
amusements  which  was  degrading  to  manhood  and  inconsistent 
\vith  the  freedom  of  the  commonwealth. 

On  the  next  morning  Rose  was  called  early,  for  her  father 
wished  to  see  the  sunrise  from  the  college  chapel-tower.  Many 
men  graduate  from  Amherst  without  knowing  that  they  leave 
behind  them  unseen  one  of  the  fairest  sights  that  will  ever  bless 
their  eyes — a  sunrise  from  the  chapel-tower. 

It  was  yet  a  half  hour  before  the  sun  would  come  over  the 
Pelham  hills ;  but  the  east  was  all  aglow.  Scuds  and  scarfs  of 
cloud  seemed  shot  up  from  below  the  horizon  as  if  from  a  crater 
of  colors.  Long  beams  of  light  rayed  out,  fan-form,  as  if  there 
had  been  a  fibrous  structure  to  the  light. 

They  had  scarcely  turned  to  look  upon  this  flaming  East 
before  they  were  joined  by  Barton  Cathcart,  who  had  in  some 
11 


232  Norwood ;  or, 

unaccountable  manner  learned  of  Rose's  intention  to  see  the  sun 
rise  upon  the  valley  of  the  Connecticut. 

They  had  hardly  exchanged  greetings  when  the  sun  shot  its 
light  along  the  notched  ridges  of  the  hills  on  the  south,  of 
which  Mt.  Holyoke  and  Mt.  Tom  are  the  westward  summits. 

At  the  same  instant  it  glowed  along  the  west,  and  upon 
Sugar-loaf  at  the  north.  In  a  moment  more  the  vaUey,  in  its 
length  and  breadth,  was  full  of  light.  A  slender  film  of  white 
hovered  along  the  line  of  the  Connecticut  river.  Beyond  it, 
shiuing  out  and  glittering,  the  white-housed  villages  looked  out 
from  among  the  trees  on  the  far  hill-sides. 

"This  is  a  scene  less  admirable  but  more  lovely,"  said  Dr. 
Wentworth,  "  than  many  which  men  travel  far  to  see." 

"  Father,  you  have  seen  the  sun  rise  on  the  Rigi  and  upon 
other  Swiss  mountains  ?  " 

"  Yes.  It  is  a  sight  of  unequalled  grandeur  ;  but  from  high 
mountains  the  landscape  is  generalized  by  its  distance  from  the 
eye.  It  excites  the  imagination  more  than  the  feelings.  It  in- 
spires a  kind  of  separateness  and  lonesomeness,  which  seem  to  be 
constituent  elements  of  the  sentiment  of  grandeur. 

"  But  if  one  would  feel  nearness  and  affection — ^perhaps  lower 
but  more  pleasurable  emotions — he  must  be  near  the  objects  seen. 
A  hill  for  prospect  should  be  so  placed  as  to  get  a  wide  view 
without  great  elevation." 

"  Barton,"  said  Rose,  "  is  this  a  favorite  resort  of  the  students  ? " 

"  I  suspect  not,"  said  Barton,  smiling  as  if  the  idea  were  even 
comical.  "  I  have  been  here  many  scores  of  times,  both  at  morn- 
ing and  at  evening,  and  I  remember  to  have  met  but  once  or 
twice  any  of  the  boys  here.  Indeed,  I  have  been  attracted  to  it 
by  its  solitude." 

"  You  must  have  seen  this  valley  in  many  fine  varieties  of 
atmosphere,"  said  the  doctor,  "  if  you  have  frequented  this  place. 
Few  persons  that  I  meet  seem  to  have  been  struck  with  the 
variety  which  nature  produces  by  vaj)orous  vestments.  "We 
notice  tlie  atmosphere  in  its  extreme  conditions,  but  not  in  all  the 
fine  intermediate  gradations.  The  world  puts  on  a  thousand 
garments,  and  seldom  two  alike.  Men  and  women  are  so  busy 
with  their  own  apparel  that  they  have  no  time  to  behold  the 
wonderful  vestures  which  God  lets  down  upon  the  earth." 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  233 

Barton's  appearance  was  striking,  Rose's  presence,  his  own 
approaching  farewell  to  the  scenes  of  so  much  enjoyment,  stirred 
him  to  the  utmost  feeling.  But,  according  to  his  nature,  he 
repressed  all  signs  of  it,  and  grew  calm  as  he  grew  intense.  Yet 
the  light  came  through.  His  face  had  a  high  and  commanding 
look,  and  every  word  he  spoke  came  as  a  tone  comes  from  a 
chord  well  strung.  Yet  there  was  no  stolen  glance  at  Rose. 
There  was  neither  hiding  nor  revealing.  There  was  on  both 
parts  simplicity  and  ingenuousness. 

"  Some  mornings  there  must  have  been  which  stand  out  in 
your  memory  with  peculiar  force  ? "  said  Rose. 

"  Scarcely  two  have  been  alike.  But  some  few  stand  out 
with  extraordinary  distinctness.  One  morning  I  came  up  here 
when  the  whole  valley  lay  tranquilly  in  a  fog.  Only  the  tops  of 
Holyoke  and  Tom  appeared,  and  they  were  like  islands  in  a  wide 
sea.  It  was  very  impressive.  It  seemed  as  if  a  flood  had  sub- 
merged the  earth  and  drowned  all  the  living  people,  and  I  was 
left  a  solitary  spectator,  looking  out  over  this  wide,  desolate  and 
silent  sea.  But  as  soon  as  the  sun  rose,  its  action  was  magical. 
There  seem  to  be  in  vapor  very  different  degrees  of  sensibility  to 
the  sunlight.  It  is  often  sluggish,  and  is  little  affected  by  hours 
of  sunshine.  But  this  morning,  no  sooner  did  the  rays  pierce  it 
than  it  began  to  writhe  and  twist  and  roll  up  in  all  forms  of 
convolution,  as  if  suffering  pain.  In  a  moment  openings  ap- 
peared, through  which  I  saw  the  earth  beneath,  and  the  first 
distinct  picture  happened  to  be  Norwood  itself,  which  I  looked 
down  upon  as  through  an  open  window  in  the  heavens  whose 
sides  shut  out  all  else.  The  whole  scene  lasted  scarcely  half  an 
hour." 

"  What  was  the  other  one  ?  " 

"It  was  an  evening  scene.  I  was  on  the  east  side  of  the 
college,  when  I  noticed  a  singular  glow  in  the  air.  The  grove, 
the  students,  every  thing  seemed  roseate.  I  knew  that  something 
was  going  on  worth  seeing,  and  made  for  this  place  as  speedily 
as  possible.  The  scene  that  burst  on  me  was  wonderful.  The 
heavens  seemed  to  be  drenched  with  rose-color.  All  the  west 
glowed  with  it.  It  ascended  to  the  zenith.  It  seeAed  to  pour 
over  and  down  to  the  very  horizon  in  the  east.  A  slight  haze,  or 
rather  scales  of  thin  vapor,  filled  the  hemisj  here,  and  these  were 


234  Norwood ;  or, 

saturated  with  rose-color.  Gradually  it  clianged  to  flame-color 
and  then  the  landscape  'was  more  wonderful  still.  Fearful  it  was. 
It  seemed  to  be  like  a  universal  conflagration.  I  thought  of  the 
language  of  prophecy,  When  the  moon  shall  Idc  turned  to  blood  ; 
and  of  that  Great  Day  when  the  elements  shall  melt  with  fervent 
heat.  The  whole  world  stood  in  an  unnatural  trance,  and  the 
most  familiar  things  looked  wild  and  almost  fearful.  But  the 
vision  was  of  short  duration.  Suddenly,  and  while  I  was  look- 
ing, the  color  was  caught  up  again  out  of  the  air.  Things  re- 
sumed their  common  look,  and  the  glory  had  left  no  effects 
behind." 

"  Ko  effects  ?  "  said  Rose.  "  Did  it  not  leave  its  effects  upon 
your  mind  ?  Did  it  not  leave  a  new  color  in  the  imagination  ? 
new  conceptions  of  Divine  power  ?  " 

"  In  truth  it  did.    It  awaked  all  my  mother  in  me  !  " 

*'  What  ? " 

"  My  mother  has  the  sense  of  infiniteness  and  mysteriousness 
more  than  any  that  I  have  ever  known.  Something  of  her  spirit 
I  have  inherited." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Rose,  quickly. 

"  This  is  the  true  moral  effect,"  said  Dr.  Wentworth,  "  of  the 
more  impressive  natural  phenomena.  Men  grow  intensely  egotis- 
tical. They  are  saturated  in  human  life,  as  if  God  had  made 
nothing  but  men,  and  men  only  in  their  everyday  uses  and 
employments.  Whatever  gives  a  shock  to  this  trite  egotism,  and 
awakens,  even  for  a  moment,  in  men,  a  sense  of  God's  iDresence 
in  all  natui-e,  cannot  but  inspire  a  more  wholesome  spirit  than 
that  which  usually  frets  and  weaves  out  the  over-busy  day. 

"  Such  days  as  Barton  mentions  stimulate  one  with  surprise, 
and  serve,  as  is  said,  in  medical  practice,  as  alteratives;  but  I 
doubt  whether  a  recurrence  of  them  would  give  so  much  pleasure 
as  is  derived  from  days  of  ordinary  sunshine.  Nothing  is  so  full 
of  joy  to  me  as  the  simple  sunshine  of  days  following  rains  or 
snows,  when  the  atmosphere  is  washed  clean,  when  the  blue  is 
deep  and  sober,  when  all  objects  rise  before  the  eye  clearly 
defined,  and  with  what  seems  to  me,  always,  earnestness.  There 
is  an  exhilaration  in  simple  sunlight.  A  flower  is  beautiful; 
forests  and  mountains  are  noble  ;  clouds  measure  the  whole  scale, 
ixom  simple  beauty  to  superlative  grandeur.     But,  after  all,  sun- 


Village  Life  in  New  En(/land.  235 

light,  as  an  object  of  pleasure,  of  admiration,  and  even  of  affec- 
tion, in  tlie  sense  in  wliicli  tlie  term  is  applied  to  insentient 
tilings,  is  far  beyond  tliem  all.  There  are  no  storms  or  convul- 
sions in  it.  Its  waves  fill  up  the  universe,  but  never  rage  nor 
utter  sound.  There  is  unwasting  power,  in  utter  silence,  in  it. 
Sounds  are  very  impressive,  but  silence  is  far  more  so ;  and  to 
me  no  silence  is  like  that  of  universal  sunlight.  Out  of  its  still- 
ness come  all  those  energies  which  awaken  life  upon  the  globe. 
It  is  father  of  the  forest  and  the  field.  It  creates  the  currents  of 
the  ocean  and  the  storms  of  the  air,  and  yet  the  sunlight  itself  is 
forever  tranquil.  It  is  to  me  the  most  impressive  feature  of  the 
world.  It  is  that  symbol  which  most  nearly  represents  the  uni- 
versality of  God,  the  energy  and  fruitfulness  of  Divine  power, 
and  its  modesty,  as  well. 

"  For,  I  often  reflect  how  it  seems  to  hide  itself,  ty  revealing 
all  the  objects  of  creation.  It  lives  and  rejoices  in  what  it 
creates.  But  sunlight  itself  is  far  more  beautiful,  infinitely  more 
wonderful  than  are  the  innumerable  broods  of  life  that  spring 
from  it.  When  I  am  in  perfect  physical  health,  there  is  no 
delight  which  I  am  more  grateful  for  than  a  simple  sunshine,  in  a 
clear  atmosphere.  I  never  so  much  wonder  as  then  at  that 
unaccountable  propensity  of  men  to  forge  religious  sjrmbols. 

"  I  admit  the  need  which  men  have  of  some  concrete  repre- 
sentation of  invisible  truths.  For  that  express  purpose  the 
whole  globe  has  been  fashioned.  But  men  are  absolutely  afraid 
of  Materialism  in  religion  !  They  dread  to  use  the  instruments 
which  God  ordained.  With  the  saddest  egotism,  they  set  up 
artificial  signs  that  at  best  but  poorly  suggest  the  pure,  the  true, 
the  good,  the  infinite.  Stars  and  suns  give  way  to  candles; 
cotton  and  wool  from  the  loom  set  aside  the  garments  of  light 
with  which  God  glorifies  the  world ;  and  while  ten  million 
flowers  around  the  world  offer  perfume,  men  bum  handfuls  of 
frankincense  in  cramped  temples.  When  the  perfect  day  comes, 
all  men  will  worship,  and  in  Nature  they  will  find  all  the  symbols 
needed  to  set  forth  the  glory  of  the  incommunicable  God." 

"  But,  father,"  said  Rose,  "  did  not  God  himself  appoint 
ritual  and  symbols  for  his  people  ?  " 

"For  a  stone-race,  too  gross  to  understand  the  imagery  of 
nature,  he  gave,  as  it  w^sre,  a  translation  designed  to  bring  them 


236  Norwood ;  or, 

back  to  the  iDrimal  and  grander  temple  service.  When  this  had 
answered  its  purpose,  he  abolished  it,  and  in  the  advent  he  swept 
altar  and  vestment  away,  and,  opening  the  realm  of  Kature,  he 
revealed  the  hidden  truth  that  it  was  the  realm  of  Grace." 

"  But,  my  dear  father,  is  not  nature  corrupt  ?  " 

"  What  natui'e  ?  Human  life  is  corrupt  enough ;  but  is  this 
habitable  globe,  its  generous  tones,  its  munificent  seasons,  its 
pictorial  scenery,  its  marvellous  processes,  its  gorgeous  imagery, 
its  days  and  nights,  summers  and  winters,  its  oceans  and  air,  and 
sun  and  sunlight,  are  these  corruj)t  ?  Since  when  have  the 
heavens  ceased  to  declare  the  glory  of  God  ?  " 

Barton  and  Rose  had  met  during  his  college  course  several 
times.  Yet,  their  intercourse  had  been  so  different  from  former 
days,  when  they  met  every  week,  that  it  was  in  effect  separation. 

Those  who  are  ripe  and  fixed  in  their  opinions  may  be  separa- 
ted long  without  losing  sympathy  or  acquaintance.  But  in 
youth,  when  the  mind  is  just  opening,  when  opinions  are 
changing,  and  while  the  whole  character  is  subject  every  year  to 
the  impress  of  new  forces,  a  long  separation  is,  virtually,  the  loss 
of  acquaintance,  particularly  with  persons  of  a  deep  nature. 
Conscious  of  great  changes  in  themselves,  and  supposing  like  ones 
to  have  taken  place  in  others,  there  is  an  exquisite  curiosity  to 
know  each  other  again,  and  to  prove  whether  both  have  grown 
in  sympathy  toward  a  common  centre,  or  whether  development 
has  been  dissimilar  and  repellent.  There  is  in  every  sensitive  soul 
a  fine  jealousy  that  refuses,  after  long  separation,  to  be  taken 
again  at  the  old  estimate.  Barton  did  not  commit  the  mistake, 
either  in  manner  or  feeling,  of  saying  : 

"  We  shall  be  intimate  now  just  as  we  were  four  years  ago  ! " 
His  manner  said,  "  Four  years  ago,  as  boys  and  girls,  we  were 
friends.    You  have  passed  on  to  a  higher  level." 

Rose  had  more  than  attained  to  the  utmost  bounds  which  his 
imagination  had  ever  placed  for  improvement.  Barton,  more 
than  ever,  felt  in  her  presence  a  kind  of  hopelessness.  His  love 
for  Rose  had  with  manhood  gained  strength  and  breadth.  The 
interviews  during  his  senior  vacation  had  shown  no  change  in 
her  but  the  regular  and  beautiful  evolution  of  a  nature  that  had 
inherited  without  struggle  the  harmony  which  in  others  comes  by 
tdolent  conflicts,  or  not  at  all.    If  she  had  seemed  good  and 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  237 

noble  before,  slie  seemed  to  his  riper  judgment  yet  lovelier,  and 
further  removed  from  need  of  him. 

But  the  consciousness  of  a  feeling  far  deeper  than  he  sup- 
posed Rose  suspected,  the  constraint  which  he  laid  upon  it,  the 
attempt  which  he  made  to  leave  Rose  free  from  the  slightest 
pressure  of  his  wishes  and  feelings,  wrought  a  kind  of  formal 
manner — at  times,  almost  coldness.  He  was  not  acting  from  a 
selfish  pride,  unduly  solicitous  for  his  own  standing,  but  from  a 
high  and  conscientious  determination  not  to  embarrass  the 
woman  whom  he  most  honored  and  loved. 

When  Tommy  Taft  reached  Amherst  on  Commencement-day, 
his  first  desire  was  to  ascend  the  hill  and  inspect  the  college 
buildings.  In  the  confusion  of  the  day,  he  might  easily  have  been 
left  to  find  out  his  own  way  without  benefit  of  explanations. 
Indeed,  he  had  gone  alone  up  to  the  college  buildings.  He  had 
looked  curiously  in  at  the  dormitories,  had  gone  to  the  chapel, 
and  looked  wonderingly  at  the  recitation  rooms,  and  with  some 
suq)rise  at  the  "  crockery  shop,"  as  he  called  the  room  of  philo- 
sophical instruments.  But,  luckily,  he  met  Hiram  Beers,  whose 
frequent  visits  to  Amherst  had  made  him  familiar  with  every 
portion  of  its  grounds  and  buildings.  Under  such  good  pilot- 
age. Tommy  Taft  proceeded  to  the  Libraiy,  whose  magnitude 
impressed  him  profoundly.  Drawing  near  to  Hiram,  he  said, 
with  a  knowing  wink  : 

"  That  is  what  they  come  for,  eh  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  old  fellow  ?  "  said  Hiram. 

"  They  come  to  college  to  read  all  them  books  ?  I  don't 
wonder  it  takes  'em  four  years.  Do  you  s'pose  Barton  has  got 
all  this  inside  of  him  ?  " 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Hiram ;  "  but  it's  mighty  poor  feed,  I 
should  think  ;  for  the  fellers  that  read  most  git  the  leanest." 

"  Do  you  know  which  end  they  begin  at  ? "  said  Tommy,  with 
a  curious  awe. 

"  Wal,"  said  Hiram,  "  I've  been  here  before,  but  I  never  saw 
many  folks  a  readin'  here.  I  guess  the  fellers  play  ball  pretty 
much  aU  summer,  and  read  winters." 

They  proceeded  to  the  Natural  History  Cabinets.  Tommy 
was  exceedingly  delighted  with  the  shells.  They  seemed  to  take 
him  back  to  familiar  objects. 


238  .  Norwood ;  or, 

"Kow  that's  sometbin'  wuth  seein'.  But  I  never  dreamed 
there  was  as  many  bugs  in  all  creation  as  they  have  stuck  up 
here.    It's  surprisin' !     Wonder  hovr  they  got  'em  ?  " 

Hiram  showed  him  into  the  geological  rooms,  where  were 
the  famous  bird-track  slabs  of  Connecticut  River,  so  dear  to 
Professor  Hitchcock. 

"There,  Tommy.  What  do  you  think  of  that  for  bird- 
tracks  ? " 

Tommy  looked  at  them  closely,  with  his  head  cocked  first  on 
one  side  and  then  on  the  other. 

"  Them's  pretty  big  birds,  Hiram.  But  you  won't  make  me 
believe  there  was  ever  birds  as  heavy  as  that !  " 

"  Heavy  as  what  ? " 

"  Why,  heavy  enough  to  make  tracks  in  solid  stones,"  said 
Tommy,  with  a  little  indignation  at  being  supposed  capable  of 
such  imposition.  "  I  can  stand  a  deal  of  stuffin',  as  I  tell  Dr. 
Buell,  when  he  preaches  on  the  doctrines.  Sez  I, — Doctor  I  can 
stand  it  as  long  as  you  can.  If  you  ain't  satisfied,  jest  go  on  and 
fetch  out  some  more.  But  I  be  darned,  Hiram,  if  you  can  stuff 
me  with  these  'ere  stories." 

"  Well,"  said  Hiram,  "  I  wa'n't  there  when  they  did  it,  but 
they  say  it's  so.     You'd  better  ask  Barton." 

Tommy  had  not  half  satisfied  his  curiosity  when  he  was 
warned  that,  if  he  would  hear  the  speaking,  he  must  make  haste 
to  the  church  where  the  Commencement  exercises  were  to  be 
held.  This  village  church  was  the  antithesis  of  the  Temple  of 
l^Iinerva  upon  the  AcroiDolis.  Tliat  exhibited  the  utmost  degree 
to  which  symmetry  and  beauty  could  be  carried.  Taking  the 
other  direction,  this  village  church,  which  was  a  Grecian  temple 
with  a  cui3ola  on  its  back,  demonstrated  how  far  it  was  possible 
for  man  to  go  in  the  direction  of  monstrous  ugliness.  What  can 
be  done  in  that  case  no  one  will  ever  imagine  who  has  not  seen 
this  remarkable  effort  at  architecture.  It  left  nothing  more  to 
possibility  in  that  kind. 

Hither  flocked  rustic  beauties.  Hither  streamed  hundreds  of 
honest-faced  farmers,  whose  sons  were  in  college,  or  had  been. 
The  procession  was  advancing  and  the  band  of  music  was  filling 
all  the  air  with  exhilarating  sounds.  All  was  excitement  and 
bustle. 


Village  Life  in  New  Encjland.  239 

By  great  boldness  and  some  strength,  Tommy  forced  himself 
near  the  front  of  the  gallery,  -where  he  could  see  and  hear  all. 
A  sly  use  of  his  wooden  leg  was  of  great  service.  Did  any  one 
refuse  to  move,  Tommy,  accidentally  putting  his  wooden  leg 
upon  his  toe,  never  failed  to  produce  a  sudden  retraction  of  that 
member.  Of  course,  as  he  deftly  slipped  himself  forward  into 
the  crevice  thus  opened,  he  was  quite  unconscious  of  any  mis- 
chief. Any  one  could  see  that,  who  looked  upon  his  hard,  un- 
moving  face. 

Through  all  the  weary  variety  Tommy  kept  watch.  Others 
changed  places,  went  out  and  returned,  but  not  Tommy  Taft. 
He  came  there  to  see  Barton  graduate,  and  that  he  meant  too  see, 
without  regard  to  time  or  fatigue.  The  heat  was  great,  but 
Tommy  had  found  greater  in  the  tropics.  He  wiped  his  face 
with  his  great  red  cotton  handkerchief,  with  such  vigorous  rubs 
that  one  feared  lest  his  features  should  disappear  under  such  a 
currying  process.  He  joined  heartily  in  all  the  applause  which 
was  given  one  by  one  to  the  speakers.  But  when,  at  length. 
Barton  appeared,  the  old  man  seemed  in  raptures.  "  Now  you'll 
hear  him.     That's  the  boy  !     Now,  hark  !  " 

At  the  passages  which  elicited  commendation.  Tommy's  foot 
joined  in  with  an  emphasis  that  left  nothing  to  be  desired  in  the 
way  of  noise. 

Far  different  vrere  Kachel  Cathcart's  feelings.  Not  far  from 
her  son  she  sat,  and  when  he  rose,  it  seemed  to  her  more  as  a 
vision  than  a  reality.  Was  this  indeed  her  o^ti  son  ?  the  very 
babe  that  she  had  brought  forth  ?  the  child  which  she  had 
tended  ?  the  boy  that  she  reared  ?  the  little  farmer  that  rose  in 
her  memory  as  he  used  to  appear  when  at  work  ?  She  was  like 
one  in  a  dream !  His  voice  sounded  stranjxe  in  her  ears.  This 
great  crowd  of  people,  all  looking  up  with  admiration  and  sym- 
pathy, and  her  own  son,  the  centre  and  cause  of  all !  She 
scarcely  heard  what  he  said.  When  loud  plaudits  startled  her, 
she  looked  as  one  roused  from  reverie.  At  length  the  valedic- 
tory was  delivered.  It  was  indeed  a  farewell.  Barton  had  felt 
in  Ms  very  soul,  and  probably  more  than  any  of  his  class-mates, 
the  full  sentiment  of  parting,  and  it  gave  a  tenderness  and 
solemnity  to  both  his  words  and  manner  which  touched  all  the 
audience  to  tears. 
11* 


240  Norwood. 

When  the  seiTices  were  closed,  many  there  were  who  con- 
gratulated Barton.  But,  with  a  fine  delicacy,  there  were  more 
who  offered  respectful  congratulations  to  'Biah  Cathcart  and 
Rachel.  Both  seemed  willing  to  avoid  their  son  in  such  a  crowd. 
They  extricated  themselves  from  the  throng,  and  repaired  to  their 
lodgings,  that  none  might  look  upon  the  joy  of  a  family  whose 
love  and  pride  had  that  day  been  so  signally  blessed. 


CILVPTER  XXX. 

DCCTOK  BUELL'S  SOEEOW. 

TnE  tristees  of  Norwood  Academy  consulted  the  universal  wisli 
when  tliey  appointed  Barton  Catbcart  to  take  charge  of  the  insti- 
tution. He  did  not  long  hesitate.  Local  prejudice  in  Barton's 
case  was  disarmed,  and  none  more  ardently  urged  him  to  accept 
than  those  who  had  known  him  from  his  boyhood.  On  the  other 
hand,  there  were  weighty  reasons  for  assuming  this  position.  It 
gave  him  an  immediate  pecuniary  support.  It  spared  him  a  pre- 
cipitate choice  of  his  profession.  It  brought  him  home  for  a  term 
of  years  to  his  family,  and  especially  to  his  mother.  When  the 
transition  from  boyhood  takes  place,  men  are  apt  to  assert  their 
individuality  with  some  jealousy  of  parental  interference,  and 
break  away  in  search  of  their  own  liberty.  After  manhood  is 
reached,  and  something  of  the  world  is  learned,  men  go  back  to 
their  homes  with  a  love  which  is  no  longer  a  mere  childish  feeling, 
but  an  educated  affection,  competent  to  weigh  and  measure.  This 
second  love  of  a  child  to  its  parents  is  so  much  richer,  deeper,  and 
more  enduring  than  any  other,  that  it  is  worth  any  price  of  inter- 
mediate suffering. 

But  another  reason  more  influential  than  aU  was,  perhaps,  the 
least  demonstrative  in  his  thoughts.  He  would  be  near  to  Eose 
"Wentworth. 

In  this  case,  as  in  so  many  others  in  the  life  of  every  honorable 
nature,  his  feelings  proved  wiser  than  any  mere  reasonings  would 
have  done.  Rose  was  not  one  likely  to  "  fall  in  love."  She 
might  grow  to  love.     But  it  would  be  a  gradual  unfolding. 

Being  richly  benevolent,  affable  with  all,  buoyant  in  spirits, 
one  not  deeply  acquainted  with  her  nature  would  be  apt  to  imagine 
himself  rapidly  advancing  in  her  graces,  and  would  flatter  himself 
that  he  had  secured  a  sympathy  which  might  be  carried  forward 
by  his  own  will  to  every  range  of  love.  But,  in  a  full  and  large 
nature,  friendliness  is  but  the  outer  court,  love  is  the  holy  ol 
holies.     Into  that  enters  only  the  ordained  of  God. 


242  Norwood ;  or. 

If  Barton  had  been  far  wiser  than  he  was  in  reading  the 
secrets  of  the  heart,  he  could  not  have  done  better  than  by 
leaving  his  hopes  to  Time,  and  to  the  results  of  a  renewed 
intercourse,  no  longer  as  children,  but  as  man  and  woman,  devel- 
oped by  study,  and  ripened  by  some  degree  of  experience  in  adult 
life. 

Barton  entered  upon  his  duties  with  a  calm  earnestness  which 
marked  his  nature.  His  spirit  was  soon  felt  in  the  wliole  school. 
Before  the  winter  closed  the  Academy  was  filled  to  its  utmost  ca- 
pacity. Selecting  his  own  assistants,  he  brought  to  his  aid  those 
who  would  work  in  full  sympathy  with  him. 

He  did  not  confine  his  efibrts  to  the  school  alone.  The  village 
Lyceum  opened  for  him  a  sphere  of  activity  which  he  was  not  slow 
to  enter. 

He  was  foremost  among  the  young  men  in  all  exhilarating  and 
manly  sports.  He  joined  a  military  company,  and  becoming 
deeply  interested  in  military  science,  soon  rose  to  the  command. 
In  these  and  various  other  ways.  Barton  preserved  vigorous  health, 
and  that  sympathy  with  active  daily  life  which  prevented  him 
from  sinking  into  the  recluse  habits  of  a  mere  student,  and  from 
every  trace  or  trait  of  pedagogic  formality. 

In  school  he  was  the  master,  and  out  of  school  the  genial 
leader  of  the  boys,  and  in  both  spheres  raised  them  apparently 
without  an  eftbrt. 

It  was  during  this  winter  and  spring  of  1858  that  two  ovents 
occurred  that  produced  the  greatest  effects  upon  his  after  life. 
Before  entering  upon  the  first  and  most  momentous  it  is  necessary 
to  precede  it  by  some  notice  of  events  which  were  in  many  respects 
intimately  concerned  with  it. 

Our  readers  have  already  formed  some  opinion  of  Dr.  Buell. 
But  thus  far  it  has  been  casual  and  exterior.  "We  must  ask  them 
now  to  go  with  us  to  the  parson's  house,  and  to  see  him  in  hia 
family  life,  with  all  its  peculiarities. 

The  minister's  house  was  as  white  as  paint  could  make  it,  and  its 
window-blinds  were  of  no  flimsy  Paris-gi-een  color,  but  of  a  good 
old-fashioned  green — so  green  that  you  would  almost  think  it  black. 
Kot  a  blind  is  open  on  the  front — all  is  closed,  orderly,  clean. 
A  front  door-yard  there  is ;  in  ov.e  corner,  an  elm  tree,  whose 
wide- curving  branches  were    the  only  graceful  thing  about  the 


Village  Life  ia  New  Erigland.  243 

place,  and,  in  tho  far  corner,  a  clinnp  of  lilacs,  seven  or  eight 
stems  springing  from  a  centre,  and  grown  almost  to  the  dimensiona 
of  trees. 

At  the  back  of  the  house  was  a  vegetable  garden ;  and,  at  the 
far  end,  a  stable  large  enough  for  a  cow  and  horse,  and  for  the 
shelter  of  an  old-fashioned  chaise.  An  outlying  lot  of  land  suf- 
ficed to  furnish  the  hay  required  for  the  horse  and  cow,  and  a 
small  strip  was  devoted  to  potatoes.  The  horse  was  the  parson's 
favorite.  lie  literally  had  no  faults.  He  was  never  known  to  kick, 
or  to  bite  any  thing  but  food.  Hay  constituting  his  principal  food, 
a  larger  quantity  was  required  than  would  have  been  if  oats  or 
corn  had  furnished  more  concentrated  nourishment  in  smaller  bulk. 
Nature,  ever  kind  to  her  creatures,  gradually  enlarged  the  barrel 
of  the  horse  until  his  belly  was  puffed  out  far  beyond  any  require- 
ments of  beauty.  A  large,  mild,  and  sleepy  eye  revealed  but  half 
the  quietness  of  his  disposition.  His  legs  might  be  handled  by 
boys.  You  might  sit  down  safely  between  his  hind  legs.  There 
was  no  liberty  which  you  could  not  take,  except  that  of  fast 
di'iving.  You  might  pour  a  bushel  of  potatoes  suddenly  upon  his 
haunches  without  producing  excitement — not,  however,  because 
he  was  lifeless,  but  from  mere  self-possession  ;  for  a  peck  of  oats 
(a  luxury  seldom  ventured!)  at  the  other  extremity  quickly  showed 
there  was  life  in  hiiii. 

He  was  safe.  ''  Slow  and  sure,"  was  his  maxim.  When  the 
good  parson  was  once  seated  in  the  chaise,  the  events  were  as  fol- 
lows :  when  the  self-possessed  animal,  with  his  head  and  neck  de- 
clining a  little  below  the  line  of  his  back,  felt  the  reins  in  the 
doctor's  hands,  he  opened  his  eyes ;  and  having  been  standing  on 
his  three  legs,  the  fourth  crooked  up  and  resting  on  the  edge  of  the 
hoof,  he  brought  them  all  squarely  under  him,  as  if  saying,  'I  am  all 
here,  sir!"  Next  the  doctor  pulled  both  reins,  and  they  were 
pulled.  Then  he  lapped  them  both  upon  the  back,  with  a  gentle 
slap,  and  pulled  one  of  them  with  some  decision.  The  time  had 
come.  The  horse  started,  walked  into  the  road,  and  then,  after 
several  admonitions,  fell  into  an  easy  jog,  which  satisfied  the  par- 
son's ambition.  But  no  persuasion  could  carry  that  trot  up  the 
slightest  rise  in  the  ground.  It  was  this  habit  of  stopping  early 
in  ascending  and  starting  again  late  in  descending  hiUs,  that  se- 
cured to  this  matchless  horse  l^ng  life  and  immunity  from  strains. 


244  Norwood ;  or, 

Dr.   Buell  innocently  told  Hiram  Beers   that  he  never  used   a 
bottle  of  liniment  in  his  life. 

Hiram  waited  till  the  parson  was  out  of  hearing,  and  then 
discoursed : 

"  Wal,  I'd  bet  on  that !  Bottle  of  liniment !  I  should  as  soon 
think  of  liniment  on  a  hoe-handle  or  a  gun-stock !  That  horse 
thinks  it's  always  Sunday,  and  that  he's  goin'  to  a  funeral  all  the 
while.  I'd  give  any  body  five  dollars  to  git  three  miles  an  hour 
out  of  that  critter !  If  there,  was  two  of  'em  they  wouldn't  go  a 
mile  an  hour,  and  four  such  horses — good  gracious !  it  would  take 
a  yoke  of  oxen  to  start  'em  anyhow !  " 

If  you  enter  the  front  door  of  the  minister's  house  the  walls 
will  shine  upon  you  with  the  unblemished  whiteness  of  "  hai'd- 
finish."  Not  a  spot  of  dirt,  not  an  engraving,  not  a  picture,  was 
allowed  to  mar  the  fair  expanse.  The  ceiling  was  white  and  glis- 
tening, the  side  walls  were  white ;  enter  the  parlor,  a  large  room, 
consecrated  to  company,  and  if  the  walls  had  been  cut  through 
banks  of  snow  they  could  not  have  been  whiter  or  colder.  The 
sitting-room  was  white  and  clean.  The  chambers  vrere  all  white 
and  all  clean,  and  every  chamber  was  like  every  other  one,  and 
they  all  together  lay  like  half-a-dozen  eggs  in  a  nest. 

One  or  two  extraordinary  water-color  pictures,  executed  by 
his  wife,  as  the  last  consummate  efforts  of  her  expiring  school-days, 
had  been  framed  in  black,  and  now  hung  in  the  sitting-room.  It 
always  pleased  Dr.  Buell  to  have  visitors  notice  them,  and  his 
invariable  comment  was,  "My  wife's  paintings! — when  she  was 
younger  and  less  occupied.  I  am  told  that  they  are  remarkable." 
They  certainly  were. 

A  portrait  also,  much  smoked  and  tanned,  hung  over  the  fire- 
place. It  was  grim  and  sharp-eyed.  Yery  badly  painted,  one 
derived  from  it  a  pleasure  in  thinking,  "  Xobody  ever  looked  like 
that ! " 

The  furniture  of  the  house  was  very  plain,  in  no  wise  tending 
to  self-indulgence.  The  single  symptom  of  luxurious  ease  was  the 
rocking-chair. 

But  if  once  you  sat  down  in  it  the  illusory  notion  of  luxury 
vanished.  It  was  wooden  throughout.  Only  if  some  one  was  sick 
in  the  house  was  there  a  cushion  in  it.  Its  joints  by  long  use  had 
formed  a  complaining  habit,  and  you  might  in  any  part  of  the 


Villa (/e  Life  in  New  England.  245 

house  know  whether  the  rocking-chair  was  in  active  use.  We  are 
obliged  to  say  that  it  was  a  treacherous  chair.  The  rockers  had 
been  curved  to  such  lines,  that  if  you  ventured  beyond  a  very  gen- 
tle motion  the  chair  would  give  a  backward  lurch,  as  if  going  over, 
and  there  are  few  tilings  more  unsatisfactory  to  a  sober-minded 
person,  careful  of  appearances,  than  to  be  carried  over  backwards 
in  the  midst  of  a  quiet  conversation.  It  is  true  that  the  chair 
never  did  go  over.  The  shape  of  the  rocker  was  such,  that  when 
the  victim  had  spread  his  arms  and  flirted  his  legs  into  the  air,  in 
an  involuntary  effort  at  equilibrium,  the  chair  stopped  and  set 
itself  firmly,  as  if  it  had  been  blocked,  returning  again  to  its  nor- 
mal state  only  upon  a  violent  effort  of  its  occupant.  The  neighbors 
were  aware  of  this  propensity  and  avoided  the  chair.  Strangers 
usually  had  an  experience  with  it.  The  good  doctor,  or  his  wife, 
for  the  hundredth  time,  re-assuring  them,  "Don't  be  alarmed.  It 
won't  go  over.     I  never  knew  any  body  to  fall  ?  " 

The  doctor's  study  was  the  room  of  the  house.  Two  sides 
thereof  were  occupied  by  shelves  laden  with  books.  The  supply 
of  theology  was  large.  The  critical  apparatus  for  studying  both 
the  classical  languages  and  the  Hebrew  tongue  was  ample.  His- 
tories, sacred  and  profane,  abounded.  Select  English  literature 
was  represented.  The  doctor's  excellent  sense  was  shown  in  the 
exclusion  from  his  library  of  all  novels,  against  which,  if  we  were 
not  writing  a  history  which  admits  of  no  delay,  we  should  pause 
to  speak.  The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  Scott's 
Lady  of  the  Lake,  and  kindred  poems,  Don  Quixote,  and  two  or 
three  of  the  "Waverley  series,  were  found  there.  But  these  were 
not,  in  his  judgment,  properly  to  be  called  novels.  They  were 
beneficial  stories.  By  novels  he  meant  "  fictions  of  an  injurious 
tendency."  Accordingly,  while  he  admitted  that  stories  might  be 
sparingly  read,  novels  were  always  to  be  avoided. 

The  order  of  the  doctor's  study  was  extreme.  Regularity  had 
well  nigh  become  formality.  Could  all  his  books  have  been  of 
one  size,  or  could  each  shelf  have  presented  an  even  line  of  well- 
matched  books,  it  would  have  pleased  him  well. 

But  in  spite  of  him  his  books  would  be  picturesque.  Some 
were  in  paper,  and  some  in  leather ;  some  were  of  octavo  size,  and 
some  duodecimo ;  some  few  had  gilt  backs,  and  others  sombre 
black ;  paper  backs  in  red,  in  green,  in  bbe,  in  gray,  and  russet 


246  Norwood ;  or, 

still  added  to  the  mixture.  Some  fat  and  thick  books  stood  in  a 
good-natured  way,  as  if  saying  :  "  We've  got  all  we  want  inside !  " 
while,  next  to  them,  some  thin  volume  would  look  as  if  pinched  in 
its  stomach  and  forever  hungry  for  contents.  There  were  aristo- 
cratic volumes — tall,  most  respectable,  and  self-important;  and 
next  to  these,  perhaps,  a  dumpy  little  volume,  squat,  like  an  asth- 
matic shoemaker. 

Even  Dr.  Buell,  when  the  afternoon  sun  poured  a  yellow  light 
into  his  favorite  study  and  lit  up  all  the  various  faces  of  his  books, 
was  conscious  in  a  dim  way  that  there  was  something  more  pleas- 
ant in  their  looks  than  their  mere  order  could  account  for.  But 
ideality  had  been  well  nigh  left  out  in  the  composition  of  his  mind, 
and  the  logical  faculty,  strong  by  nature,  had  struck  out  its  roots 
by  use  into  aU  the  ground,  with  such  resolute  and  exhausting 
growth  that  the  imagination,  like  a  fruit-tree  caught  in  a  forest, 
could  never  grow  larger  than  a  bush,  and  bore  neither  fruit  nor 
blossom. 

He  was  thoroughly  good.  Conscience  penetrated  every  faculty 
of  his  mind,  and  gave  rest  to  none  of  them.  As  not  unusually 
happens,  he  felt  most  condemned  for  those  very  qualities  in  which 
he  excelled.  Neither  weather,  nor  weariness,  nor  occupation,  nor 
sickness  in  any  common  measure  could  hold  him  back  from  those 
ministrations  which  he  had  assumed.  Unselfish  to  a  degree  unusual 
even  with  the  benevolent,  he  reproached  himself  every  day  with 
self-indulgence.  iSTever  sparing  himself  or  his  time  when  the  poor 
or  the  sick  needed  his  ministerial  offices,  he  carried  in  his  heart  a 
feeling  that  he  was  guilty  of  much  waste  of  time  and  of  negl'igence 
in  the  best  use  of  that  time  which  he  employed.  , 

With  the  material  world  he  had  no  other  relations  than  such 
as  served  the  practical  and  material  wants  of  men.  There  was 
little  beauty  to  him  in  the  seasons,  though  much  of  usefulness. 
Colors  had  little  charm  for  him.  Forms  seldom  attracted  his  notice. 
In  short,  the  artist  eye  and  the  poet's  sympathy  for  nature  seemed 
utterly  foreign  to  Ms  mind. 

Mrs.  Buell  was  one  of  those  women  who,  alone,  are  feeble  and 
colorless,  but  who,  when  joined  to  others,  derive  to  themselves 
the  strength  and  character  of  their  surroundings.  Like  a  ^/ine 
she  had  all  the  strength  of  the  tree  around  which  she  twined  and 
apon  which  she  grew.     Her  father's  house  had  been  always  th* 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  247 

K^me  of  ministers  visiting  the  town.  She  was  educated  to  regard 
ministers  of  the  Gospel  as  the  complete  ideals  of  manhood.  TVhen 
the  prospect  arose  before  her  of  being  a  minister's  wife,  she  could 
hardlj  convince  herself  that  the  Lord  had  reserved  for  her  so  great  a 
mercy.  To  her  natural  and  ardent  love  of  Dr.  Buell  as  a  man,  she 
added  the  uttermost  reverence  for  his  office,  and  her  household 
duties  seemed  to  her  a  perpetual  religious  service,  as  much  so  as  if 
she  had  lived  in  a  temple,  he  a  priest  and  she  priestess.  "With  a 
sweet,  confiding  nature  she  accepted  her  husband's  mind,  and 
only  used  her  own  when  his  was  not  at  hand.  She  never  dispu- 
ted his  word  or  doubted  his  wisdom.  And  when,  inadvertently, 
she  expressed  views  not  in  agreement  wiih  his,  the  moment  l^e 
disagreed  with  her  she  yielded  and  changed  her  opinion,  as  if  a 
God  had  spoken  to  her.  This  was  not  a  grudging  submission,  nor 
the  fruit  of  duty,  and  still  less  was  it  in  a  subservient  spirit.  Like 
pure  water,  she  took  the  color  of  the  sky  and  clouds  that  lay  above 
her. 

Of  a  sweet  disposition,  always  inclined  to  do  right  almost  with- 
out an  efibrt,  never  doing  enough,  active  beyond  her  strength,  and 
neat  to  a  degree  that  no  description  can  measure,  she  made  the 
Parson's  home  almost  happier  than  he  thought  it  ought  to  be. 

"My  dear  Eliza,  I  sometimes  am  afraid  that  we  have  too  many 
good  things  in  this  life.  Our  chastisements  are  so  few  and  so  light 
that  I  query  whether  God  loves  us,  '  for  whom  he  loveth  he 
chasteneth.' " 

A  slight  blush  of  pleasure  would  come  upon  her  delicate  cheek. 
Sometimes  she  would  say : 

"  Kour  boy  had  lived,  we  should  have  been  too  happy." 

That  boy  died  at  twelve  years  of  age.  The  neighbors  thought 
that  he  was  not  a  saint.  Therein  they  differed  from  his  mother. 
Besides  him  they  had  no  children.  That  grief  borne,  all  the  rest 
of  their  life  seemed  tranquil  and  prosperous., 

Unconsciously  and  gradually  her  husband  became  her  god. 
All  that  lie  did  was  right.  All  that  he  said  was  true.  He  never 
made  mistakes.  ISTot  to  like  her  husband  was  to  be  bad,  of  course. 
To  differ  with  him  showed  weakness  of  character.  She  repeated 
his  sayings  with  an  infantine  simplicity.  She  wondered  that  other 
people  did  not  talk  more  about  him.  Dr.  Wentworth  was  a  great 
man,  because  he  was  warmly  attached  to  her  husband.    She 


248  Norwood ;  oVy 

would  not  hear  a  word  against  Tommy  Taft,  and  she  took  every 
word  of  his  speeches  to  her  husband  as  literal  and  sober  verity. 

"  There  must  be  a  seed  of  grace  in  him,"  she  would  say,  "or 
he  would  not  be  so  fond  of  good  men." 

"W"e  may  be  sure  that  this  did  not  escape  Tommy's  eye.  He 
would  call  at  the  Parson's  house  when  he  was  pretty  sure  not  to 
be  at  home. 

"  The  Doctor's  not  at  home,  you  say  ?  That's  my  luck!  But 
what  a  blessin'  to  this  town  to  have  such  a  minister  in't !  Sez  I 
to  Hiram,  t'other  day,  sez  I,  '  Hiram,  you  ought  to  be  a  better 
man  than  yon  be,  seein'  you  have  sech  extraordinary  preachin' 
and  example.'  But  Hiram,  you  know,  marm,  though  nowise 
vicious,  is  not  given  to  speritual  things.  More's  the  pity !  But 
what  a  privilege  it  must  be  to  you,  marm,  to  be  his  wife !  Ee- 
markable  that  sech  a  blessin'  should  be  given  to  just  one  woman! 
Your  husband  don't  never  swear,  marm,  does  he  ?  " 

The  start  of  unaffected  amazement  with  which  Mrs.  Buell 
echoed  the  word  "  swear ! "  seemed  infinitely  gratifying  to  Tommy, 
who  raised  and  lowered  his  shaggy  eyebrows  several  times,  say- 
ing with  each  movement : 

"  Of  course  not — of  course  not.  I  knew  he  didn't.  If  any 
body  had  told  me  that  Dr.  Buell  swore,  I  wouldn't  a  b'lieved  it 
on  oath.  Impossible  !  impossible  !  Jest  think  of  it — the  Doctor 
swearin'.  Oh,  it's  beautiful  to  see  a  man  that  don't  swear  and 
don't  want  to.  But  really,  marm — when  you  see  how  wicked 
folks  is— what  ugly  things  they  will  do — don't  you  think  its  kind 
o'  natural  to  swear  ?  l^oi  profane  swearin',  of  course,  but  pious 
swearin'." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Buell  to  her  husband,  "  don't  you  think 
Tommy  Taft  is  near  to  the  kingdom?  He  seems  to  me  to  have 
much  that's  good  in  him.  I  can't  but  hope  there's  a  work  going 
on  slowly  in  him." 

"  Yes — very  slowly." 

For  several  winters  Mrs.  Buell  had  suffered  from  colds.  Each 
year  her  system  seemed  less  able  to  resist  attacks  and  more  and 
more  weakened  by  them.  She  was  herself  not  aware  of  danger. 
But  her  husband,  instructed  by  Dr.  TVentworth,  was  seriously 
uneasy.  As  winter  drew  near,  her  strength  seemed  failing.  She 
struggled  bravely  and  hopefully.    But  each  month  reduced  the 


ViUa(je  Life  in  Neic  England.  249 

number  of  hours  in  which  she  could  attend  to  household  duties. 
Her  face  grew  thin,  but  even  more  beautiful  every  week.  Her 
eye  was  never  brighter.  Her  cheek,  like  an  October  apple, 
showed  by  its  brightness  that  the  harvest  time  was  drawing  near. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  by  either  of  them  of  that  Great  Fear, 
which  was  dimly  disclosing  itself  to  her,  and  which  had  long  been 
defined  and  clearly  visible  to  hira. 

During  the  autumn,  Dr.  Buell  had  taken  his  wife,  on  various 
pretests,  to  ride  with  him  ftir  oftener  than  was  usual.  As  cold 
weather  approached,  he  prepared  his  house  for  winter  with  more 
care  than  ever  before.  New  arrangements  for  heating  were  intro- 
duced. The  windows  were  calked  and  the  doors  listed  to  prevent 
drafts  of  air.  Little  by  little  the  whole  economy  of  the  household 
revolved  around  this  shadowy  fear,  of  which  no  one  spoke.  Every 
one  acted  as  if  a  danger  impended,  but  no  one  uttered  a  word  of 
it.  Even  to  Dr.  "Wentworth  Parson  Buell  spoke  with  muffled 
indirections,  as  though  to  put  his  fears  into  words  would  give 
them  some  advantage. 

This  could  not  last.  Little  by  little  the  invalid  yielded  one 
and  another  task,  saying  : 

"I  don't  know  what  ails  me,  but  I  grow  so  weak." 

In  vain  were  tempting  dishes  prepared ;  and  jellies,  cordials, 
wines,  with  which  parishioners  filled  the  house,  gave  no  strength. 
The  white  upon  her  countenance  grew  whiter,  and  the  scarlet 
more  intense.  "With  a  gentle  reluctance,  she  gave  up  one  after 
another  of  her  household  duties,  but  strove  to  fulfil  little  personal 
services  to  her  husband.  She  looked  over  his  linen  every  week, 
and  languidly  repaired  any  little  break.  She  laid  out  for  him  his 
Sunday  apparel,  and  saw  that  his  clean  white  handkerchiefs  were 
duly  laid  upon  his  coat.  One  by  one,  even  these  small  but  precious 
duties  of  love  were  taken  from  her.  and  she  seemed  to  herself,  as 
by  some  invisible  power,  to  be  drifting  further  and  further  away 
from  him. 

It  was  one  brilliant  Sabbath  morning  in  January  that  she  had 
prepared  for  her  husband  his  white  cravat,  which  for  many  years 
she  had  fondly  placed  upon  his  neck,  and  tied  in  a  perfect  bow, 
smoothing  the  ends,  and  by  dainty  touches  here  and  there  giving 
the  look  of  neatness  and  simplicity  for  which  Dr.  Buell  was 
noted. 


250  Norwood ;  or. 

On  tMs  morning  the  bell  toUed  long  for  the  minister.  The 
deacons  looked  uneasily  toward  the  door.  Such  a  thing  as  tardi- 
ness "was  never  known  in  Dr.  Buell.     What  could  keep  him  ? 

Deacon  Trowbridge,  big  with  an  innocent  sense  of  the  impor- 
tance of  the  matter,  looked  at  the  pulpit,  then  at  Deacon  Marble, 
then  into  the  broad  aisle,  and  then  closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment 
and  cleared  his  throat.  He  repeated  this  service  once  or  twice  in 
an  edifying  manner,  and  then  slowly  rose  and  went  over  to  Deacon 
Marble  to  consult. 

First  one  whispered  and  the  other  nodded,  then  the  other 
whispered  and  the  first  one  nodded ;  then  both  of  them  looked 
perplexed.  Meanwhile  the  boys  tittered ;  for  while  the  deacons 
were  absorbed  in  each  other,  Dr.  Buell  had  passed  down  the  aisle 
and  entered  the  pulpit,  and  his  voice,  opening  the  service,  put  a 
hasty  end  to  the  two  deacons'  perplexity. 

"What  had  detained  him  ? 

"When  he  came  that  morning  for  his  cravat,  his  wife  with 
trembling  hands  essayed  her  accustomed  offices.  She  laid  back 
the  collai'  of  his  vest,  raised  his  shirt  collar,  and  sought  to  clasp 
his  neck  with  the  cravat,  but  her  little  strength  was  gone.  Pant- 
ing, and  smiling  sadly,  she  sought  to  cover  the  failure  by  plaiting 
the  cravat  a  little  differently,  and  again  rose  to  place  it  round  her 
husband's  neck. 

Her  hand  trembled  and  failed.  ITow,  for  the  first  time,  the 
grief  brought  forth  the  confession  : 

"Oh,  my  husband,  I  shall  never  do  it  again.  I  am  dying,  and 
I  must  leave  you." 

Clasped  in  his  bosom,  she  gave  way  to  a  paroxysm  of  weeping. 
There  was  silence.  Tears  poured  down  his  face.  "With  ineffable 
tenderness  he  bore  her  to  the  bed,  and  kneeling  down  by  her  side, 
he  poured  out  his  thanksgiving  for  all  her  love  and  service  to  him, 
in  broken  sentences,  wet  with  tears,  as  if  it  were  an  offering  of 
flowers  wet  with  dew,  and  in  solemn  simplicity  he  gave  her  back 
to  God,  from  whose  hand  he  had  taken  her.  The  clouds  rolled 
away.  From  that  moment  both  of  them  spoke  of  her  death  with 
tender  frankness. 

When  he  arose  in  the  pulpit  that  morning  his  voice  did  not  falter. 
There  was  neither  weakness  nor  excitement ;  but  there  was  an  ir- 
resistible fervor.     Once  or  twice  he  came  so  near  to  the  expression 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  251 

of  feeling  that  all  the  house  grew  still,  and  the  ticking  of  the  round 
clock  on  the  singing-gallery  could  be  x^lainly  heard  all  over  the 
church.  It  was  but  a  moment's  weakness,  and  his  strong  heart 
overcame  the  tendency,  and  his  work  went  on  to  the  end  unfalter- 
ingly.    Few  ever  forgot  the  strange  solemnity  of  that  morning. 

Meanwhile  a  new  energy  seemed  to  fill  the  minister's  soul.  As 
he  had  been  jealous  always  lest  any  thing  should  withdraw  him 
from  his  work,  by  any  self-indulgence,  so  now  he  was  afraid  of  the 
self-indulgence  of  sorrow.  He  left  nothing  unperformed  that  he 
had  been  wont  to  do.  He  visited  the  schools  with  even  more 
fidelity  than  hitherto,  he  held  his  neighborhood  meetings,  he  was 
present  at  all  the  committees  and  various  circles,  which  fill  up  a 
parish  life.  But  the  moment  his  tasks  were  done  he  flew  back  to 
his  wife's  chamber. 

From  her  childhood  his  wife  had  been  a  member  of  the  church, 
but,  now  that  she  was  so  soon  to  go  forth  from  all  temples  made 
with  hands,  her  husband's  deepest  anxiety  was  as  to  her  full  prepa- 
ration for  the  great  change.  Kot  one  word  had  he  ever  uttered 
to  his  congregation  of  the  awful  issues  of  the  future,  that  he  did 
not  now  feel  in  her  behalf  who  so  long  had  walked  with  him  to 
the  house  of  God.  Day  by  day,  he  held  up  before  her  the  search- 
ing tests  by  which,  since  the  days  of  Jonathan  Edwards,  the  more 
earnest  IsTew  England  Christians  have  tried  themselves. 

It  would  have  been  a  great  relief  to  his  soul,  if,  instead  of  a 
gentle,  languid  submission  to  the  will  of  God,  she  had  been  favored 
with  more  earnest  experiences.  Her  views  of  her  own  sinfulness 
were  correct,  but  without  great  strength.  Her  faith  was  mild,  but 
not  strong.  She  was  willing  to  go,  but  did  not  rejoice.  She  could 
not  say,  for  a  long  time,  that  she  was  willing  to  leave  her  husband. 
Still  more  trying  was  it  that  she  had  to  confess,  that  she  loved  her 
husband  more  than  any  thing  else.  Her  soul  had  as  yet  no  wings, 
but  would  cling  and  brood  in  its  nest. 

Her  husband  was  jealous  for  the  honor  of  his  Master,  and  sin- 
cerely mourned  that  his  beloved  clung  to  Mm  with  such  utter  and 
undivided  love. 

Agate  Bissell,  who  had  lived  in  the  house  e\or  since  Mrs.  Buell 
ceased  to  leave  her  room,  though  profoundly  sympathizing  with 
rho  minister  in  his  religious  views,  yet  had  a  sympathy  with  a 
ivoman's  nature,  which  enabled  her  to  help  both  of  them. 


252  Norwood;  or, 

"Why  do  you  worry  the  poor  child,  doctor?  She  can't  give 
you  up  while  the  Lord  keeps  you  both  together !  Seems  to  me  it 
will  be  time  enough  to  let  go  of  you  when  the  Lord  takes  off  her 
hand.  As  long  as  we  are  liviug  God  will  give  us  living  grace,  and 
he  won't  give  us  dying  grace  till  it's  time  to  die.  What's  the  use 
of  trying  to  feel  like  dying  when  you  ain't  dying — nor  anywhere 
near  it  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  folks  that  are  afraid  of  not  following 
the  Lord,  might  sometimes  be  afraid  of  going  before  him  when  not 
called." 

Dr.  Buell  made  no  reply.  He  looked  upon  Agate  with  a 
thoughtful,  wondering  look,  as  if  grateful  for  unexpected  help.  At 
length  he  said,  as  if  hoping  help  in  other  points : 

"  I  have  prayed  that  the  Lord  would  make  to  her  a  fuller  dis- 
closure of  his  glory,  and  that  he  would  give  her  such  an  assurance 
of  her  acceptance,  as  would  leave  us  a  comforting  evidence  after- 
wards." 

"  You  want  your  wife  to  be  submissive  to  God's  will.  Are  you 
submissive  ?  Are  you  willing  that  God  shall  show  his  sovereignty 
by  giving  just  such  a  dying  experience  to  this  poor  child  as  he 
pleases?  She's  been  all  her  life  clasping  round  you,  tight  as  a 
vine,  and  she's  grown  so.  l^ow  you  want  her  to  unclasp  and  let 
go,  just  when  she's  so  weak  and  trembling  that  she  needs  more 
than  ever  she  did  the  support  of  leaning  on  and  loving  you.  You 
are  in  danger  of  oppressing  one  of  God's  little  ones,  by  putting  the 
burdens  of  the  strong  upon  her.  And  as  for  her  evidences,  I  don't 
know  why  a  whole  life  of  consistent  piety  should  be  thrown  away, 
when  you  are  groping  for  feelings  in  a  poor,  feeble,  dying  creature, 
that  is  too  weak  to  manage  her  thoughts  or  feelings." 

Dr.  Buell  was  used  to  Agate  Bissell's  straight-forward  sense, 
and  now  he  was  more  than  willing  to  take  the  implied  rebuke  con- 
tained in  her  words.  Indeed,  his  solicitude,  his  fear  of  not  being 
faithful,  his  anxiety  that  nothing  should  be  left  undone  in  this  last 
great  experience  of  life — departure  from  it — had  somewhat  dis- 
turbed that  nice  judgment  which  he  manifested  in  ministering  to 
■  others  in  their  last  sicknesses. 

It  was  past  the  middle  of  February,  and  so  near  to  March  that 
already  its  searching  winds  were  abroad,  when  the  crisis  of  Airs. 
Buell's  disease  was  reached.  On  a  Sunday  morning,  brilliant  but 
blustering,  Dr.  Buell  proceeded  as  usual  to  the  church.     His  wife 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  253 

had  not  for  a  long  time  seemed  so  well.  She  lay  propped  up  with 
pillows.  Her  wan  and  wasted  face  was  refreshed  this  morning 
with  a  return  of  almost  childlike  beauty.  Flowers  brought  by 
Kose  Wentworth  stood  near.  K.t  her  husband's  appearance,  a 
very  sweet  smile  went  over  her  face,  and,  as  he  stooped  to  kiss 
her,  she  whispered :  "  The  Lord  is  very  good.  He  sends  mo 
great  peace  to-day.  Good-bye!  Come  back  again  soon,  dear 
husband !  " 

It  was  the  Angel  of  Peace,  whose  wings  were  already  bearing 
her  up  above  all  storms  or  sorrows ! 

Dr.  Buell  was  gone  scarce  half  an  hour  before  the  sufferer 
groaned  with  pain.  For  a  few  moments  she  seemed  in  anguish. 
Suddenly  she  placed  her  hands  on  her  bosom  as  if  something  had 
given  way.  The  experience  of  pain  faded  out  of  her  face — a  sweet 
smile  came.  She  seemed  as  if  she  was  gazing  at  some  surprising 
sight.  Agate  ^pake  to  her — spake  again.  It  was  vain !  Other 
sounds  were  now  about  her,  and  her  voice  was  heard  in  other 
realms ! 

Eose  was  sent  to  call  Dr.  Buell.  He  was  in  the  closing  passa- 
ges of  his  sermon  when  he  saw  the  door  of  the  church  open  and 
Rose  enter.  She  cast  upon  him  a  beseeching  look,  and  then,  as 
if  hesitating,  she  turned  and  whispered  to  one  who  sat  near.  They 
both  went  out  into  the  vestibule. 

Though  agitated,  his  sense  of  duty  in  God's  house  inspired  Dr. 
Buell  to  finish  the  morning  services  in  every  particular.  It  was 
not  meet  that  his  private  feelings  should  disturb  the  services  of  the 
sanctuary ! 

No  sooner  had  he  come  forth  than  Rose  met  him.  Without 
waiting  for  her  message,  he  said : 

"  Let  us  hasten !     Is  she  worse  ?  " 

"No;— better!" 

"Is  it  so?     God  help  me!" 

Bewildered  and  hardly  conscious  of  surrounding  things,  he  en- 
tered the  room  where  his  wife  lay.  He  gazed  long  upon  her. 
Then,  in  a  wandering  way,  he  stretched  out  his  arms  and  called 
her,  "  Eliza !  Eliza  !  "  He  sat  down  upon  the  side  of  her  bed.  He 
placed  his  hands  upon  her  face.  He  took  her  poor  little  hand  in 
his.  There  was  the  wedding-ring,  and  no  other  had  she  ever 
worn !    All  the  past  seemed  to  come  back  upon  him. 


254  Norwood. 

"  Dead  ?  Impossible  I— Eliza !  speak !  j  ust  one  word !  Speak  1 
Oh,  mj  wife !  " 

Then  with  all  the  fond  names  which  he  had  ever  used  he  plead 
with  her. 

Agate  and  Eose  withdrew — let  ns  draw  back !  This  first  sor- 
row is  for  the  soul's  self  only,  and  for  God ! 


CHAPITER  XXXI. 

TUE    TWO    SEXTONS. 

"Good  morniog,  Mr.  Turfmould,"  said  Tommy  Taft.  "Fine 
weather.     Very  busy  you  were  yesterday! — a  solemn  day." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Taft,  a  fine  funeral— as  fine  a  funeral  as  ever  I 
see.  Such  lessons  must  have  an  effect  on  the  careless  and 
worldly." 

"You  must  be  a  judge  of  sech  matters,  by  this  time,  Turf- 
mould!" 

"I've  been  in  my  business  nigh  about  thirty  years.  I've  done 
most  of  the  respectable  buryin'  hereabouts,  and  though  I  say  it 
that  shouldn't  say  it,  I've  as  good  judgment  about  a  funeral  as  the 
next  man! " 

"  I  thought  the  hull  country  had  turned  out.  I  never  saw  so 
many  folks  in  that  church.  There  must  have  been  fifty  car- 
riages." 

"Fifty?  nearer  a  hundred!  Then  there  was  six  ministers 
from  out  of  town,  besides  all  that  lives  here.  Gener'ly  a  funeral 
in  the  week  time  is  like  a  shadow  in  one  spot.  But  yesterday  it 
was  a  cloudy  day  all  over  town.  Indeed,  it  was  just  like  Sun- 
day." 

"  Only  a  good  deal  more  so." 

"  Yes — a  good  deal  more  so.    It  was  certainly  edifyin'." 

"Ah!"  said  Tommy  Taft,  with  a  look  of  great  simplicity, 
"  the  ministers  were  all  very  well,  but  folks  couldn't  keep  their 
eyes  off  from  you  and  that  beautiful  coflSn." 

"  A  better  coflfin  was  never  brought  into  town.  Poor  thing! 
I  knew  her  taste.  She  was  awful  neat.  The  last  thing  afore  they 
put  the  linin'  in  I  went  myself  and  stood  the  coffin  on  end,  and 
brushed  it  out,  every  crack  and  corner,  just  as  she  would  have 
done  herself,  poor  sufferin'  creature,  if  she  had  been  there.  But 
she  was  a  kind  thing — very  good  to  folks  in  distress,  and  I  felt 
like  suitin'  her  if  I  could.  I  just  said  to  myself,  '  Turfmould,  this 
is  the  last  time  you  can  pay  her  back  any  thing  for  all  she  did  for 
your  child,  poor  thing ! ' 
12 


256  Norwood ;  or, 

"  I  tell  3'er,  Mr.  Taft,  I  never  quite  liked  the  way  that  funeral 
^as  served  on  my  child!  Tompkins  hasn't  got  the  feelin's  that 
our  profession  requires.  Do  you  s'pose  I  would  take  advantage 
of  Mm^  if  he'd  had  a  body  in  his  house,  and  one  of  his  own  bodies, 
too,  a  child,  or  a  wife,  or  somethin'  like  that  ?  That's  no  time  to 
run  a  fellow,  when  he's  doin'  his  own  mournin'.  Nobody  loves 
his  child  any  better'n  I  did  mine.  And  there  wasn't  a  puttier  girl 
in  this  town,  that  was  allowed  on  all  hands.  Yes,  sir.  They  used 
to  call  her  the  lily  of  the  grave-yard— they  did.  That  was  a 
delicate  allusion  to  my  bizness,  you  know.  I  hadn't  expected  that 
she'd  drop  off.  When  I  got  back  from  Squire  Cheney's  funeral, 
and  was  puttin'  up  my  boss,  Pete  he  came  out,  and  looked  at  me  a 
kind  of  wet  and  wild-like,  and  so  I  run  past  him,  and  went  in. 
Oh,  dear  me !  I  don't  like  to  tell  about  it.  My  wife  she  didn't  say 
any  thing,  and  I  didn't  say  any  thing,  and  Rhoda  didn't  say  any 
thing.  She  lay  on  the  bed,  and  her  hair  hung  down  on  the  pillow, 
and  her  face  was  white — and  her  mother  never  cried,  and  couldn't ; 
she  didn't  look  at  me,  nor  at  the  poor  child,  neither,  and  didn't 
stir;  and  I  never  saw  two  folks  look  so  much  alike  as  they  two 
did ;  and  both  of  'em,  you  know,  was  called  Pwhoda !  I  never  was 
in  such  a  peck  of  troubles.  I  thought  I'd  go  for  the  minister,  and 
then  I  thought  of  Dr.  Wentworth,  and  just  then,  who  should  open 
the  door  but  the  Doctor's  Rose  ?  She'd  been  comin'  every  day,  and 
fetchin'  things,  and  she  loved  Ehoda  dearly.  The  child  just  wor- 
shipped Rose.  Well,  she  came  in  and  had  some  flowers,  and  she 
walked  straight  up  to  the  bed,  and  said,  'Rhoda,  Rhoda,'  and  then 
she  sort  o'  came  to  the  meanin'  of  things ;  and  she  looked  with 
her  great  blue  eyes  at  the  poor  dead  thing,  with  such  a  lovin'  way, 
that  I  ra'ly  thought  the  child's  face  was  gittin'  brighter ;  and  once 
I  thought  she  was  comin'  to  ;  her  face  trembled  like ;  but  it  was 
just  my  eyesight, — you  know  when  tears  are  movin'  round  you 
can't  see  very  correct." 

At  this  he  wiped  his  eyes  with  the  back  of  his  hand;  and 
drawing  a  large  red  handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  he  gave  a 
sonorous  blowing,  sounding,  as  Tommy  Taft  said,  like  the  rams' 
horns  around  Jericho. 

"  Well,  I  was  sittin'  on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  tryin'  to  git  over 
it,  when  the  door  opened  agin,  and  Rhoda's  mother  came  in — that 
is  my  v.-ife's  mother,  you  know, — and  walked   right  up  to  the 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  257 

mother.  And  afore  she  had  time  to  say  a  -w-ord,  Rhoda  she  n2 
right  up,  and  gave  such  a  scream  as  never  "was  heard  afore,  I  do 
believe.  It  cum  from  the  very  heart.  Oh,  Lord,  how  it  hurt  me ! 
'  Ehody,  Rhody,'  sez  I,  '  don't  for  pity  sakes ! '  But  I  didn't  need 
to  say  so,  for  that's  the  last  time  she  ever  opened  her  mouth.  1 
don't  wonder.  There  was  a  year's  feelin'  in  that  one  scream,  and 
it  killed  her.  She  sort  o'  fell  in  her  mother's  arms,  and  Eose  and 
she  got  her  on  the  bed,  and  she  lay  sleepin'  like  through  the  night, 
and  in  the  mornin'  when  the  sun  rose  she  was  gone,  and  nobody 
knew  when  she  breathed  her  last.  And  then  I  had  two  bodies  in 
the  house  at  a  time.  Providence  don't  often  provide  such  ma- 
terials for  a  funeral.  Well,  I  found  it  putty  hard.  Rose,  she  sent 
for  Alice  Cathcart,  and  they  wouldn't  let  any  body  touch  her  but 
themselves ;  and  Rose,  she  put  flowers  'round  her,  and  said  she 
was  the  sweetest  flower  of  'em  all ;  and  Rose  kept  smilin'  and 
cryin'  softly  all  the  time, — and  was  as  gentle,  and  lovin',  and  care- 
ful of  me  as  if  I'd  been  her  father ;  and  she  cum  to  me  when  I  sat 
in  the  door,  next  day,  feelin'  as  if  I  was  dead  inside  and  couldn't 
feel,  only  my  head  it  went  on  thinkin', — she  cum  and  read  the 
Bible  to  me.  At  first  I  couldn't  hear  much,  only  her  voice  was 
sweet  and  comfortin' ;  but  as  she  went  on,  I  seemed  to  cum  to 
myself  just  as  she  was  readin',  ^ And  Jesus  mid^  Suffer  little  children 
to  come  unto  me^  and  forbid  them  not^  for  of  such  is  the  Tcingdom  of 
Heaven.  And  he  tooh  them  up  in  his  arms^  and  put  his  hands  upon 
them  and  blessed  them."*  It  seemed  as  if  I  heard  somebody  say  this 
in  the  air ;  and  I  felt  as  if  I  knew  what  had  become  of  Rhody,  and 
her  mother,  too — for  she  warn't  more'n  a  child  herself — and  I 
bust  into  tears,  and  didn't  feel  as  bad  agin  through  the  hull  of  it. 
"Well,  at  first  I  thought  I  should  send  down  to  Springfield 
for  a  funeral.  Tompkins  hadn't  done  the  right  thing  by  me, 
and  though  we  never  had  any  words,  we'd  had  more'n  enough 
feelin's.  He  had  a  smooth  way  of  edgin'  into  my  custom. 
When  young  Brace  was  buried,  every  body  said,  I  ought  to  have 
had  it. 

"  And  then  he  hadn't  no  family  of  his  own,  and  there  wasn't 
no  chance  for  me  some  time,  in  like  circumstances,  you  know. 
Well,  this  is  the  way  I  got  out  of  it :  I'd  been  sittin'  still  after 
Rose  left  off"  readin',  and  I  heard  somebody  talkin'  in  the  room 
where  Rhody  was — both  of  'em — and  I  went  to  the  door,  and 


258  Norwood ;  ory 

there  was  Rose  and  Alice  kneelin'  down  by  the  pillow,  and  Rose 
was  prajin'.  Such  a  sweet  prayer  I  never  did  hear.  It  beat  the 
minister  all  to  nothin',  and  it  was  full  of  thanks,  and  as  happy  as 
a  Spring  bird  is  when  he  sets  in  the  apple  trees  yonder  and  sings ; 
and  when  she  stopped  I  went  back  and  sot  down,  and  all  my 
feelin's  was  changed  and  I  said:  'Git  thee  behind  me,  Satan. 
Tompkins  shall  have  this  funeral ;'  and  so  he  did.  I'll  say  this  for 
him,  that  I  believe  he  tried  to  do  about  right.  But  nature  is 
strong,  you  know,  and  I  did  think  he  took  on  a  leetle  more  than  he 
need  to.  Mebby,  if  it  had  been  me,  I  should  have  done  so  too.  It 
makes  a  difference,  you  know,  whose  house  a  funeral's  in.  And 
when  we  was  all  in  the  carriages,  and  the  two  coffins  was  in  the 
hearse, — he  wanted  two  hearses,  but  that  would  not  be  in  good 
taste.  I  didn't  like  so  much  show,  and  besides,  I  knew  the  mother 
ought  to  keep  her  child  close  to  her ; — and  when  the  procession 
was  ready,  he  came  walkin'  up  to  see,  for  the  last  time,  if  all  was 
right,  it  wa'n't  in  human  nature  to  keep  in  his  satisfaction  with 
the  occasion !  And  when  he  mounted  and  sat  down  with  the 
driver  on  the  leadin'  carriage,  I  do  believe  there  wasn't  so  proud  a 
man  in  this  town. 

"  "Well,  he  was  very  kind  though,  and  we've  never  had  any 
words  since  then ;  and,  considerin'  the  temptations  of  the  business, 
we  are  pretty  good  friends ;  and  so  I  thought  it  fair,  when  the 
minister's  wife  was  goin'  to  be  buried,  to  show  him  some  attention, 
so  I  asked  him  to  officiate  with  me.  Every  body  knew  that  it  was 
my  funeral,  and  it  looked  right  to  let  folks  see  that  there  wasn't 
no  jealousy.  I  think  such  a  great  loss  ought  to  produce  a  solemn- 
izing effect  on  every  body,  particularly  the  young.  I  always  try 
to  make  my  funerals  means  of  grace  to  somebody.  Every  body's 
got  to  die.  ISTobody  dies  but  once,  though,  and  any  good  you're 
goin'  to  git  out  of  'em  you  must  git  then.  So  I  thought  I  ought  to 
to  ask  Dr.  BueU  if  he  had  any  thing  specially  improvin'  to  suggest. 
But  he  turned  as  pale  as  ashes  when  he  saw  me,  and  shuddered 
all  over  as  if  he  had  a  chill  comin'  on,  and  Agate  Bissell,  she  saiti, 
in  a  hurry  like,  as  she  pushed  me  out,  that  he  wa'n't  in  a  state  of 
mind  to  see  me. 

"But  I  went  over  to  Tompkins,  and  he  and  I  consulted 
about  it. 

"  '  Tompkins,'  says  I,  '  this  is  a  peculiar  occasion.' 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  259 

" '  Yes,'  says  lie,  '  it  is.  It's  enough  to  make  one's  reputa 
tion.' 

*'  'Now  I  want,'  says  I,  'to  have  just  such  a  funeral  as  would 
suit  her,  so  that  if  she  could  come  back,  she'd  say,  "  I  thank  you, 
Mr.  Turfmould ;  you  have  done  exactly  to  my  mind."  You  know 
that  if  there  was  a  woman  in  this  town  who  hated  dirt,  she's  that 
woman,  and  I  think  we're  bound  to  respect  her  taste  when  she's 
gone  just  as  much  as  if  she's  livin'.' 

"  '  Well,  that's  easy  enough,'  said  Tompkins.  '  We  can  slick 
up  every  thing  with  extra  care,  and  have  a  double  inspection  of  all 
the  materials ' 

"  '  Well,  that  of  course ;  but  I  was  thinkin'  about  the  grave. 
You  know  you  can't  dig  a  grave  and  have  no  dirt.  Deceive  our- 
selves as  we  will,  you  know  we've  all  got  to  come  to  it, — dust  we 
are  and  to  dust  we  return ;  but  then,  you  know,  we  can  break  the 
matter  gently  like,  keep  a  large  tarpaulin  lyin'  over  the  dirt,  and 
then  I  mean  to  cover  the  outside  box  with  turf^  which  keeps  the 
gravel  and  stuff  from  rattlin'  in  when  the  coffin  is  down.' 

'"That's  a  good  idea,'  sez  he,  '  and  I  think  all  your  arrange- 
ments are  good.     They  are  new,  and  ought  to  be  fashionable.' 

"  '  I  don't  care  for  fashion,'  says  I.  '  I  think  it  will  be  comfort- 
in'  to  the  minister  and  respectful  to  her  memory.  I've  seen  things 
managed  quite  the  contrary.  You  know  when  BidweU's  wife 
died,  they  put  him  in  the  coach  with  his  sister-in-law,  and  they 
had  always  quarrelled,  and  they  didn't  mend  matters  that  journey. 
Old  Bidwell  told  me  of  it.  Says  he,  '  If  I  ever  have  another  funeral 
you  shall  have  it,  Turfmould.  Jones  is  no  sort  of  a  manager.  He 
just  spoilt  my  wife's  whole  funeral.  I  never  took  a  bit  of  comfort 
in  it  from  beginning  to  end.' 

'"But  Dr.  Buell  had  no  reason  to  say  that,'  says  Tompkins. 
'  I  am  sure  we  did  every  thing  that  we  could.  I  think  Kyle  beat 
himself  with  those  flowers.  I  never  saw  such  splendid  funeral 
flowers.  I  didn't  know  what  flowers  was  made  for  till  I  saw 
wreaths,  and  crosses,  and  dishes.  Flowers  is  certainly  very  useful, 
and,  if  well  managed,  considerable  profit  may  come  from  them.' " 

For  some  reason  Tommy  Taft  seemed  to  enjoy  this  exhibition 
of  professional  feeling  with  the  utmost  inward  satisfaction.  He 
let  the  sexton  go  on  uninterrupted,  except  a  word  here  and  there 
to  set  him  forward  again. 


260  Norwood, 

"  TV  ell,  Mr.  Turfraould,"  said  Tommy,  at  length,  "it's  a  serious 
loss  to  the  town,  but  that's  nothin'  to  what  'tis  to  Dr.  Buell.  I 
really  pity  him.  There's  no  mistake  the  minister  feels  it.  He  acts 
as  though  he'd  lost  somethin',  and  didn't  exactly  know  where  to 
look  for  it." 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

THE    FRUIT    OF   SORROW. 

Nothing  strikes  all  value  out  of  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life  sc 
soon  as  sorrow.  It  works  alike  in  all,  but  the  deepest  natures  are 
the  most  affected  by  it.  A  single  blow  descends,  and  the  world  is 
changed,  and  rises  before  the  eye  as  another  creation.  Yesterday  the 
soul  surveyed  its  garden,  to-morrow  it  will  see  only  a  wilderness. 

Sorrows  work  upon  the  soul  as  late  rains  do  upon  vegetation. 
All  night  a  cold  rain  falls,  and  in  the  morning  the  leaves  are  gone. 
The  coverts  are  no  longer  shady,  trees  hold  up  bare  branches,  and 
the  air  with  every  puff  of  wind  is  filled  with  leaves,  languidly 
descending  to  the  ground.  After  the  first  shock  and  excitement 
of  grief,  which  sometimes  carries  the  soul  high  up  toward  serene 
experiences,  comes  the  reaction.  The  nerve  of  pleasure  is  paralyzed. 
All  objects  report  themselves  to  the  senses  in  sombre  colors. 
Values  are  changed  or  destroyed.  Life  is  empty  and  effort  useless. 
In  thoughtful  natures  next  arise  anxious  questionings.  The  break- 
ing up  of  the  heart  seems,  for  a  time,  to  overturn  the  conclusions 
of  the  reason  itself.  Men  doubt  their  most  settled  beliefs,  and  bold 
skepticisms  invade  the  secret  calm  of  Faith.  Wliile  the  nobler- 
sentiments  are  silent  and  torpid,  there  spring  up  in  their  place 
sudden  repulsions  and  capricious  disgusts. 

The  valley  and  shadow  of  Death  is  not  dreadful  to  those  who 
pass  through  it,  but  to  those  who  follow  after  but  may  72('«  pass 
through ! 

Dr.  Buell,  whose  simplicity  was  childlike,  felt  himself  strangely 
tempted.  Such  terrible  thoughts  never  before  assaulted  him.  For 
a  refuge  he  sought  his  study,  that  there  in  pious  meditations  and 
devotions  he  might  combat  the  adversary. 

But,  after  a  little,  he  fled  out  of  it  as  from  a  furnace.  Such 
horrible  doubts  assailed  him— such  wicked  feelings  coursed  through 
his  heart,  that  he  almost  believed  himself  given  over  of  God.  His 
very  struggles  increased  his  diflQculty.  They  heightened  the  ex- 
citement, and  carried  him  further  from  rest  and  nearer  to  a  morbid 
condition.     His  discourses  on  the  first  Sunday  after  the  bnrial  of 


262  Norwood ;  or, 

his  wife  were  even  more  impressive  than  usual,  and  his  ilock 
admired  the  faith  which  lifted  him  above  such  sorrow.  On  the 
second  Sunday  a  marked  change  was  visible.  His  sermon,  like  his 
own  soul,  was  irregular  and  unbalanced.  The  quick  eye  of  Dr. 
Wentworth  discerned  the  minister's  condition.  Kow  it  was  that 
friendship  could  make  itself  felt.  He  affected  to  have  much  need 
6f  the  minister.  He  carried  him  to-day  in  one  du-ection  to  counsel 
a  dying  person,  to-morrow  he  consulted  him  respecting  some 
orphan  children.  It  was  necessary,  too,  it  seemed,  that  he  should 
go  with  Dr.  Wentworth  to  a  school  district  lying  remote  from  the 
village.  During  these  rides,  which  were  every  day  varied,  he 
gently  drew  from  the  minister  an  account  of  his  experiences,  and 
prescribed  so  skilfully  for  both  his  moral  and  his  physical  need 
that  months  of  suffering,  and  perhaps  the  usefulness  of  his  life, 
were  saved. 

"  ITothing  exhausts  vitality  faster  than  the  exertion  of  the  will," 
said  Dr.  Went  worth.  "Already  the  tone  of  your  nerves  is  lost. 
You  are  still  further  reducing  yourself  by  attempting  to  restrain 
and  combat  irregular  and  morbid  action  by  sunple  will-power. 
The  disease  and  the  remedy  are  both  of  them  exhausting  you. 
Let  yourself  alone.  Avoid  solitude.  Turn  to  the  help  of  others. 
Take  on  business  which  will  occupy  without  tasking  your  mind. 
iSTothing  is  half  so  medicinal  for  our  troubles  as  benevolent 
sympathy  and  occupation  in  the  troubles  of  others.  This  is  the 
true  moral  recreation." 

"But  is  it  right,  doctor,  that  one  should  seek  relief  from  trouble 
sent  of  God,  except  by  going  to  the  hand  that  has  afflicted  ?  " 

"  He  seeks  God  who  accepts  His  laws,"  said  the  doctor.  "  The 
best  preparation  for  personal  communion  is  a  devout  fulfilment  of 
the  duties  owed  to  God  through  natural  laws.  He  who  asks  God's 
help  should  at  least  show  respect  to  his  laws,  and  not  make  prayer 
merely  a  petition  for  the  suspension  of  the  penalties  of  the  violated 
laws  of  mind." 

Dr.  Wentworth's  efforts  availed  so  far  as  to  rescue  the  minister 
from  the  danger  of  breaking  down  in  health.  Little  by  little  his 
spirits  rose.  Yet  life  seemed  changed  and  emptied.  He  turned  all 
his  powers  into  his  ministerial  work.  A  new  fervor  filled  his 
preaching.  His  appeals  became  more  tender  and  solemn.  It  was 
noticed  that  gradually  the  audience  was  filling  up.    Men  listened 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  263 

with  more  earnestness.  Week  after  week  the  community  were 
movmg  together  in  one  direction,  under  the  influence  of  the  pro- 
foundest  sentiments  which  can  inspire  the  human  soul. 

Judge  Bacon  was  sitting  in  Dr.  "Wentworth's  library,  one  Sunday 
evening,  and  seemed  unusually  talkative.  Yet,  there  was  an  em- 
phasis and  point  not  ordinarily  observed  in  his  half-negligent  and 
polished  manner. 

"  The  parson  has  a  grand  hattue  on  hand." 

^  Ah ?     I  don't  understand." 

"  Why  he  has  for  several  weeks  past  been  sweeping  around  the 
people  with  his  grand  doctrines ;  and  now  the  circle  is  formed,  and 
he  is  driving  in  toward  the  centre.  Oh,  you'll  see  see  rare  slay- 
ing before  long." 

Dr.  "Wentworth  made  no  answer,  but  sat  as  opc  vrlio  is  medi- 
tating. 

"You  can  see,"  said  Judge  Bacon,  "every  Sunday  he  advances 
a  step.  I've  seen  this  thing  before.  I  know  how  it  will  end.  By 
and  by  there  will  come  a  break  down ;  then,  like  frightened  sheep, 
a  crowd  will  make  a  rush  toward  the  church-doors,  pell-mell. 
After  a  while,  a  count  will  be  made,  and  the  results  published. 
The  upshot  of  it  will  be  that,  while  before,  one  hundred  selfish, 
bustling,  disagreeable  people  lived  outside  of  the  church,  after- 
wards they  will  live  inside  of  the  church — that's  all." 

Still  Dr.  "Wentworth  made  no  reply.  At  length  Judge  Bacon 
said  abruptly : 

"Doctor,  do  you  believe  in  Revivals?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  You  surprise  me !  I  had  supposed  that  you  were  too  firm  and 
intelligent  a  believer  in  Natural  Law." 

"  It  is  on  that  ground  that  I  believe  in  Revivals.  In  every  de- 
partment of  life  men  are  moved  in  masses,  and,  as  it  were,  with 
social  contagions.  Few  men  in  any  thing  act  alone.  They  kindle 
themselves  in  the  simplest  employments  by  social  contact.  Social 
enthusiasms  have  characterized  the  progress  of  the  race  in  every 
department  of  society." 

"  Because  societies  have  been  rude,"  said  Judge  Bacon,  "  and 
men  have  been  animal  in  nature,  and  it  is  no  wonder  that  their 
animal  feelings  should  be  excited." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  replied  the  doctor,  "  animals  are  not  sub- 
12* 


264  Norwood ;  or, 

ject  to  social  enthusiasms,  or  only  in  the  most  rudimentary  manner 
Men  are  susceptible  of  such  excitement  in  proportion  as  they  re- 
cede from  animal  conditions.  In  art,  in  amusements,  in  social  im- 
provement, in  patriotism,  men  tend  to  act  in  masses,  to  be  kindled 
by  each  other  to  enthusiasm,  and  such  conditions  develop,  not  ob- 
struct, the  active  powers.  This  social  excitement  is  favorable  to 
taste,  affection,  judgment,  and  reason.  I  do  not  know  why  moral 
emotions  should  be  exempt  from  this  same  law." 

"But  you  can  plainly  see  that  these  things  are  got  up.  I  can 
give  you  a  prescription  for  a  revival." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  replied  Dr.  Wentworth.  "  Is  not  education  '  got 
up? '  Is  not  art  culture  'got  up  ? '  Is  not  your  own  profession, 
and  mine,  'got  up?'  Why  should  men  be  afraid  to  speak  of 
moral  states  as  the  result  of  deliberate  and  intentional  effort? 
Why  should  not  men  apply  the  term  education  to  moral  faculties 
as  well  as  to  others  ?  and  study  for  moral  results  as  they  do  for 
social  or  sesthetic  ?  Are  not  the  moral  sentiments  subject  to  laws 
as  much  as  any  other  parts  of  the  mind  ? " 

"  Yes — but  church  people  imagine  that  revivals  descend  upon 
them  from  above ;  that  they  are  mysterious  and  divine ;  that  the 
less  human  agency  is  concerned  in  them  the  purer  they  will  be." 

"  It  is  only  another  instance,"  said  the  doctor,  "  in  which  a 
fact  is  recognized  before  the  theory  of  its  causation  is  understood. 
I  do  not  the  less  believe  that  a  divine  influence  is  experienced  be- 
cause it  pursues  the  channels  of  established  law.  Men  account  for 
phenomena  by  natural  laws,  as  far  as  their  knowledge  goes,  and 
then  they  ascribe  whatever  is  left  over,  beyond  their  knowledge  of 
causation,  to  superior  beings.  The  higher  ranges  of  human  ex- 
perience are  the  most  complex  and  subtle,  and  seem  mysterious, 
because  the  lines  of  causation  are  finer  and  more  spiritual.  But 
the  profoundest  mysteries  of  human  experience  will  one  day  be 
found  to  furnish  the  most  admirable  illustrations  of  the  universal- 
ity and  constancy  of  natural  laws." 

"  I  don't  see.  Doctor,  but  you  are  as  bad  as  the  rest  of  them. 
I  shall  have  to  be  a  philosopher  without  company.  It  will  never 
do  for  us  to  submit  to  this  influence.  An  enthusiasm,  in  my  mind, 
would  mix  up  things  worse  than  a  wind  in  my  study  would  dishevel 
my  papers.     I  shall  stand  aloof  and  see  others  act." 

The  doctor  continued : 


Village  Life  in  New  Eitcjland.  2G5 

"  iUl  nations,  pretending  to  moral  life,  have  been  subject  to 
these  outbursts  of  feeling.  It  is  all  very  well  to  declare  tliat  a  grad- 
ual and  constant  progress  in  goodness  would  be  better.  Such  is 
not  the  law  of  development.  Nations  advance  by  paroxysms.  The 
race  lias  gone  up  not  by  steady  improvement,  but  by  leaps,  witli 
long  rests  between.  At  a  later  period,  when  society  has  reached  a 
higher  plane  than  at  present,  progress  may  become  even,  uniform, 
and  constant.  At  present  that  seems  impossible.  And  we  are  to 
regard  these  moral  freshets  as  admirable,  relatively  to  the  wants 
of  the  whole  community." 

Here  the  discussion  ended,  for  that  time. 

We  have  little  idea  of  the  power  of  truths  till  we  see  their  ac- 
tion, without  obstruction,  upon  a  whole  community  that  is  aroused 
to  a  sensitive  and  sympathetic  condition.  Truths  ordinary  run 
through  societies  as  gold  does  in  rocks — a  thin  vein  shut  in  by  wide 
measures  of  stone.  When  enough  men  hold  a  truth  in  common  to 
give  to  that  truth  a  social  influence,  its  range  and  power  become 
greatly  increased ;  but  no  one  knows  the  very  royalty  of  a  truth 
until  the  whole  community  are  aroused,  made  sensitive  and  sym- 
pathetic, and  give  to  truth  the  force  of  glowing  enthusiasm.  Not 
only  is  the  power  of  a  truth  thus  disclosed,  but  a  community  is  knit 
together  and  enriched  by  being  made  subject  to  some  one  worthy 
impulse  all  together,  by  consciously  holding  some  great  truth  with 
a  common  enthusiasm.  And  if  the  truth  is  a  profound  moral 
truth,  and  the  enthusiasm  a  moral  enthusiasm,  no  man  can  measure 
the  cleansing,  inspiiring,  and  strengthening  influence  arising  from 
such  a  unity  and  intensity  of  experience  as  it  produces. 

The  indirect  effects  of  those  moral  experiences  called  revivals, 
in  vivifying  the  moral  sense,  elevating  the  sentiments,  and  giving 
to  daily  life  a  larger  moral  element — in  bringing  over  secular 
things  the  shadow  of  the  Infinite,  are  so  important  that  they  should 
be  accounted  great  benefits,  quite  independently  of  the  special 
personal  reformations  which  they  work. 

This  religious  movement,  which  was  itself  remotely  connected 
with  Dr.  BuelFs  bereavement,  was  one  of  the  occurrences  which 
we  alluded  to  in  the  last  chapter  as  having  an  important  influence 
upon  Barton's  life.  It  brought  to  a  head  a  long  train  of  moral 
symptoms. 

With  his  mental  organization,  and  with  the  domestic  influences 


266  Norwood ;  or, 

^vhich  had  from  his  childhood  been  acting  upon  him,  Barton 
Cathcart  could  hardly  fail  to  be  of  a  religious  turn.  But  in  N"ew 
England,  pre-eminently,  the  religious  dispositions  and  affections 
are  required  to  be  conjoined  with  the  great  philosophical  state- 
ments of  religious  truths.  It  is  not  enough  that  one  is  good,  he 
must  be  sound.  There  is  a  practical  toleration  toward  those 
whose  lack  of  education  or  feebleness  of  mind  gives  no  power  of 
feasoning  upon  such  themes  as  are  involved  in  the  great  doctrines 
of  revealed  religion.  But  in  proportion  as  men  are  educated  is 
the  demand  intensified  that  right  affections  shall  proceed  from 
right  beliefs. 

Young  Cathcart,  during  the  last  two  years  of  his  college  course, 
had  found  his  religious  life  passing  from  a  state  of  acquiescent  ac- 
ceptance into  one  of  eager  questioning.  His  Reason  was  asserting 
its  sovereignty.  Should  he  believe  because  his  parents  and 
teachers  did?  Should  he  suffer  himself,  among  so  many  sects, 
holding  widely  different  beliefs,  to  be  located  without  any  delib- 
erate investigation  or  honest  judgment  of  his  own?  "Was  a  man 
to  be  superscribed  by  his  parents,  like  a  letter,  and  sent  to  this  or 
that  church  ? 

To  this  rebound  of  reason  from  youthful  faith  was  added  the 
influence  of  scientific  studies,  to  which  his  taste  had  strongly 
inclined  him.  But  the  result  was  far  other  than  he  had  anticipated. 
He  proposed  to  himself  to  open,  investigate  and  settle,  one  by  one, 
the  great  truths  of  religion.  He  but  half  succeeded.  He  opened 
but  could  not  close.  He  had  power  to  bring  i6to  doubt  every  one 
of  his  childhood  beliefs,  but  he  had  neither  the  experience  nor  the 
grasp  required  to  conduct  them  back  to  certainty. 

He  began  to  feel  that  convictions  did  not  follow  logic.  The 
feelings  must  be  consulted,  and  the  imagination  as  well  as  the 
reason,  in  re-establishing  faith. 

At  one  time  he  would  drift  far  away  from  all  positive  belief. 
All  the  more  familiar  truths  seemed  paralyzed.  As  men  look  back 
upon  nations  in  the  olden  time,  and  know  that  amid  their  fondest 
convictions  they  were  in  profound  error — that  their  gods  were 
myths,  their  histories  half  fables,  and  their  theology  a  mere  fiction, 
so  now  and  then  it  came  home  to  him  with  ghastly  distinctness, 
that  a  time  would  come  when  men  would  look  back  upon  him  and 
his  generation  in  the  same  manner. 

\ 


Village  Life  in  New  En  (/land.  267 

From  these  dreary  solitudes,  Barton  would  rebound,  after  a  time, 
mto  an  enthusiastic  re-acceptance  of  all  his  childhood  faith.  He 
was  enraged  at  himself  and  at  his  intellect  for  robbing  him  of  peace. 

It  was  like  him  to  carry  on  these  conflicts  within  himself 
silently,  and  without  help  from  others.  Thus  for  two  or  three 
years  his  soul  rose  and  fell  like  the  tides.  He  was  swept  far  out 
into  the  solitudes  of  the  sea,  where  sometimes  silent  mists,  and 
sometimes  mighty  storms  befell  him.  Then,  with  inexpressible 
relief,  the  current  changed,  and  he  swept  shoreward,  and  flowed  in 
again  to  familiar  bays  and  rivers,  and  rejoiced  in  the  old  places. 

This  could  not  continue  always.  The  painfulness  of  this  dreary 
uncertainty  at  length  had  become  so  great- that  he  relinquished  aU 
thought  of  religious  themes,  in  so  far  as  he  could,  and  assisted  him- 
self in  his  eflforts  by  excessive  application  to  study.  During  the 
first  year  after  he  graduated,  he  had  contrived  to  smother  his  diflfi- 
culties,  and  to  maintain  a  peace  which  he  hoped  would  become 
permanent. 

In  this  state  of  mind  when  a  deep  religious  movement  began  in 
Norwood,  he  found  that  his  troubles  were  only  covered  up,  not 
extinguished. 

His  mother's  solicitude  that  he  should  rise  into  an  open  and 
earnest  religious  life  was  extreme.  She  ventured  but  a  few  words, 
but  they  were  like  arrows.  Dr.  "Wentworth  and  his  family  left 
Barton  to  follow  his  own  bent  without  seeking  to  force  it.  Dr. 
Buell,  kindly  but  firmly,  pressed  him  with  considerations  of  duty. 
Barton  shrank  fi-om  disclosing  his  real  state.  If  he  had  reached 
any  settled  convictions  he  would  have  had  courage  to  avow  and 
defend  them ;  but  to  say  that  the  religion  of  his  childhood  had  let 
go  and  dropped  away  from  him,  and  that  he  held  in  doubt  all  that 
those  most  dear  to  him  held  in  a  blessed  certainty,  was  to  make 
himself  the  victim  of  feelings  worse  than  pity.  He  lived  in  a  com- 
munity where  to  be  an  unbeliever  was  to  be  a  criminal. 

A  new  misery  befell  him.  The  consciousness  of  a  secret  life 
utterly  at  discord  with  his  seeming  life,  and  with  that  of  those 
dearest  to  him,  began  to  raise  in  him  the  fear  that  he  was  practising 
insincerity ; — that  he  was  living  a  false  and  double  life.  He  ab- 
horred duplicity.  He  loved  truth  and  frankness.  And  yet,  in 
matters  of  the  most  vital  moment,  he  was  living  a  life  utterly  dif- 
ferent from  that  which  all  that  knew  him  supposed.     At  times  bis 


268  Nonoood ;  or, 

distress  grew  so  great  that  he  was  on  the  point  of  disclosing  hia 
feelings.  But  to  whom  ?  Not  to  his  mother.  That  would  pierce 
her  without  relieving  him.  Not  to  Rose.  He  shuddered  at  the 
thought.  It  would  be  like  letting  night  down  upon  his  already 
faint  hopes.  Should  it  be  to  Dr.  Buell  ?  But  the  doctor,  he  thought, 
had  never  doubted  as  he  had,  and  could,  therefore,  have  no  sym- 
pathy with  one  upon  whom  an  argument  and  a  text  produced  little 
salutary  effect.     The  question  was  soon  answered  for  him. 

"I  have  called,"  said  Parson  Buell  to  Dr.  Wentworth,  "  to  speak 
with  you  concerning  our  common  friend.  Barton  Cathcart.  I  have 
talked  with  him  several  times  on  the  great  subject  on  which  s€ 
many  are  interested.  But  I  obtained  no  response.  It  was  plain 
to  me  that  his  thoughts  were  disturbed,  and  from  certain  signs  I 
am  led  to  fear  that  his  views  are  unsettled.  I  am  distressed  to 
think  that  this  season  may  pass  and  leave  no  blessing  for  him.  "We 
cannot  endure  to  see  a  nature  so  noble  made  a  cast-away.  Perhaps 
it  will  be  in  your  power  to  aid,  at  least  to  ascertain  his  true  state. 
The  spring  is  passing.  Summer  will  soon  be  here.  He  is  a  child 
of  faith  and  of  many  prayers.  I  am  aware  of  his  partiality  for  you, 
and  of  the  great  influence  which  your  mind  has  over  him.  It  may 
be  that  he  will  repose  in  you  a  confidence  which  he  seems  indis- 
posed to  place  in  me." 

The  doctor  promised  to  give  to  Barton  an  early  opportunity 
of  conversation,  should  he  wish  it.  But  it  came  even  before  he 
sought  it.  Eose  on  the  next  morning  told  her  father  that  Barton 
had  been  questioning  her  on  many  points  of  religious  belief,  and 
had  expressed  a  wish  to  converse  with  her  father. 

That  very  evening  Dr.  "Wentworth  and  Barton  were  long 
together.  The  result  only  of  their  conversation  did  the  doctor  deem 
't  best  to  report  to  Dr.  Buell. 

"  I  think  Barton  has  stumbled  at  the  letter,  but  has  not  fallen 
from  the  spirit  of  the  Record.  Unskilful  handling  of  his  own 
case  has  made  him  morbid.  He  desires  the  truth  as  an  unweaned 
child  yearns  for  its  mother's  breast.  It  ought  not  to  be  difficult 
for  such  a  one  to  find  firm  faith.  His  is  a  clear  instance  of  that 
doubt  which  has  widely  sprung  up  in  the  track  of  physical  science. 
It  arises  from  the  introduction  of  a  totally  new  method  of  investi- 
gation. It  must  be  met  on  its  own  ground.  If  the  distinguishing 
doctrines  of  grace  have  their  types  and  root  in  nature,  as  I  be- 


Villa(/e  Life  in  New  England.  269 

.ieve  tliey  have,  then  evidence  from  that  source  "will  reach  the 
trouble.  The  alphabetic  forms  of  moral  truth  found  at  large  in 
the  world  will  serve  to  teach  one  at  length  how  to  read  those 
clearer  manifestations  of  the  divine  nature,  and  of  moral  govern- 
ment, which  are  perfectly  disclosed  only  in  the  life  and  teachings 
of  our  Saviour." 

But  Ave  prefer  to  let  Barton  Cathcart  speak  for  himself.  From 
a  private  journal  we  extract  a  few  passages. 

BARTON  CATnCART'S  JOURNAL. 

''''June  10, — To-day  has  been  full  of  excitement.  I  have  seen 
Rose.  Why  do  I  seek  to  unsettle  her  peace  ?  Should  I  love  her, 
if  her  soul  wandered  as  mine  does  ?  Am  I  not  drawn  to  her  by 
her  deep  peace,  by  that  very  faith  that  does  not  falter  ?  And  yet 
I  am  provoked  that  she  is  tranquil  and  I  am  not.  Why  should  she 
have  all  the  gifts  of  God  and  I  none  ?  Every  thing  with  her  tends 
to  fulness  of  peace,  and  to  gayety  and  joy.  But  I  am  heavily 
laden.  Thought  only  mires  me  deeper.  I  cannot  get  my  consent 
to  relinquish  it.  It  follows  me — haunts  me.  I  cannot  accept  the 
religion  of  my  fathers.  I  cannot  get  rid  of  it.  I  am  vibrating  be- 
tween faith  and  skepticism.  I  envy  little  children.  I  would  give 
all  the  world  if  I  could  go  back  to  be  like  them — ^to  have  their 
unfaltering  trust  in  truth.  I  am  giddy  and  whirled  and  very 
unhappy. 

"Dr.  Wentworth  told  me  yesterday  that  my  trouble  was  that 
I  was  living  in  my  own  personality  ;  that  I  was  too  low  down  to 
see  the  truth  ;  that  I  should  never  reason  my  way  through  ;  that 
moral  truth  could  not  be  perceived  by  pure  reason ;  that  it  must 
liave  an  emotive  inspiration,  and  come  first  as  an  experience,  and 
afterward,  if  at  all,  as  an  analysis  and  deduction  ;  that  I  must  grow 
tired  and  despair  of  engineering  my  way  by  mere  reason ;  that 
when  I  came  into  a  state  of  moral  exaltation,  I  should  see  truth 
and  its  harmony  ;  even  then  that  it  would  not  be  expressible  ;  that 
a  moral  view  that  satisfied  a  fall  nature  could  not  be  reduced  to 
terms  of  language.  I  have  had  several  conversations  with  him. 
He,  if  any  one,  can  help  me.  But  how  to  come  to  that  exaltation  ? 
Am  I  to  believe  what  I  don't  believe,  in  the  hope  that  it  will  kindle 
my  moral  feelings  to  luminousness  ?  Am  I  to  stultify  my  reason 
first,  in  order  to  educate  it  ? 


210  Norwood;  or, 

"  Yet,  the  doctor  knows  the  courses  of  scientific  thought ;  he 
certainly  has  kept  pace  with  the  knowledge  of  skeptical  schools, 
and  yet  he  is  a  Christian  believer.  He  seems  to  carry  nature  and 
Christianity  in  harmony.  He  is  certainly  at  rest.  That  I  do 
know.  I  have  too  sure  an  instinct  not  to  know  who  are  doubting. 
My  sore  heart  is  so  sensitive  that  I  feel,  almost  before  I  hear  one 
speak,  what  he  will  say.  I  am  repelled  from  those  who  are  at 
rest  in  unbelief.  Judge  Bacon  chills  me.  I  rebound  from  Went- 
worth,  because  he  believes,  and  from  Bacon  because  he  does  not. 
His  cold  touch  shocks  me.  I  feel  when  he  talks  about  religion  as 
I  should  if  my  mother  were  dead,  and  I  saw  a  surgeon  using  her 
body  for  anatomical  demonstratit)ns.  All  my  life  is  woven  into 
Christian  faith ;  to  rid  myself  of  it  is  to  tear  every  thread  that 
connects  me  with  the  past,  with  childhood,  with  home,  with  taste, 
with  love,  with  knowledge  itself.  "What  is  a  thread  worth  drawn 
out  of  the  fabric  ?  That  is  a  man  separated  from  the  influences 
and  beliefs  that  formed  him,  and  that  are  woven  into  society. 
Dr.  Buell  warned  me  against  becoming  fascinated  with  specious 
unbelief,  said  that  the  pride  of  my  heart  would  deceive  me  and 
flatter  me  to  my  ruin.  Great  God  !  what  is  there  attractive  in  not 
believing  ?  It  is*living  torture.  I  am  like  a  man  who,  walking 
unconsciously,  has  slipped  into  a  dry  well,  whose  sides  defy  climb- 
ing. I  am  alone,  men  walk  a  hundred  feet  above  me — perhaps 
near  me — no  one  hears,  no  one  extricates.  I  look  up  and  see  the 
sky,  only  to  measure  how  deep  my  grave  is  and  how  hopeless  of 
ascent !  I  am  alone  there — I  am  without  food  or  water  or  com- 
panionship, at  the  bottom  of  a  well,  looking  up  in  despair  of  ever 
again  feeling  benign  influences !  Fascinations  of  skepticism  ! 
They  are  to  me  the  fascinations  of  the  torture-room,  they  are  as 
attractive  as  nightmares  in  a  fever ! ! 

"  To  all  the  rest,  is  this  secret  horror,  that  I  am  separated  by  my 
miserable  state  from  Rose.  She  could  never  love  me,  could  she 
see  what  a  soul  I  bear.  I  would  not  deceive  her  if  I  could. 
Could  a  man  of  honor,  if  he  was  diseased,  be  so  foolish  as  to  hide  it 
from  a  woman  whom  he  honored — knowing  that  he  would  secure 
her  hatred  when  she  discovered  it  ?  But  how  much  more  is  a  soul 
and  mind  in  disorder  than  a  body  ?  I  dare  not  love  Rose  and  lose 
her.  I  do  love  her,  and  despair  of  ever  coming  nearer  to  her. 
She  would  not  love  me,  1  know,  if  she  knew  me.    I  wQuld  not  be 


Village  Life  in  New  Englaiid.  271 

united  to  ber  if  she,  in  her  divine  kindness,  would  !  "What,  marry 
a  mere  nurse !  a  soul  nurse !  Marry  for  my  own  sake,  and  not  for 
hers!  Bring  her  no  peace?  no  joy?  no  larger  life  than  she  had 
before  ?    I  wish  that  I  could  worship  God  as  easily  as  I  can  Rose. 

'•''June  15. — My  school,  at  any  rate,  is  helped  by.  my  inward 
disquiet.  I  seek  relief  in  labor  and  thought.  I  fly  from  those  sad 
and  dreary  moods,  introverted  and  self-conscious.  They  ruin  me 
and  would  poison  every  one  should  I  infect  them.  I  watch  my 
scholars  to  see  if  they  know  that  I  am  swinging  like  an  unlighted 
star  in  a  great  circuit  of  darkness,  eternal  motion,  without  light  oi 
rest.  I  shrink  from  them  as  if  I  were  false  to  my  place,  and  had 
no  business  with  children.  Oh  !  those  dear  faces,  turned  up  to  me 
with  such  clear  trust,  I  look  upon  them  with  unutterable  feelings. 
God !  suffer  not  contagion  to  go  from  me !  I  redouble  my  energy. 
I  seek  to  fire  them  with  ardor  and  honor.  I  seek  to  so  burden  my- 
self with  duties  toward  thera  that  I  shall  have  no  room  for  suffer- 
ing myself. 

"They  certainly  answer  to  my  exertion.  All  the  nobler 
natures  are  inspired  by  me  with  almost  romantic  zeal.  I  see  by 
their  eyes  admiration  and  fondness  ;  but  it  falls  upon  me  as  the 
ardor  of  worshippers  once  fell  on  marble  gods.  I  am  cold  to  it. 
I  have  that  sense  of  unmanly  suffering,*  of  soul  disquiet,  of  utter 
ruin. 

'"''June  20. — A  strange  experience  befell  me  yesterday.  My 
day's  work  was  done.  My  walk  was  completed.  The  sun  had 
gone  down.  I  had  fallen  into  one  of  those  balanced  states  of  mind 
in  which  is  calm,  and  all  the  evening  scenes  tended  to  soften  even 
to  tenderness.  A  robin  flew  into  the  trees  over  against  my  room, 
and  began  that  peculiar  song  which  indicates  the  absence  of  its 
mate.  It  is  the  sweetest  and  most  passionate  of  all  their  singing. 
And  since  I  have  learned  that  it  is  a  call  of  loneliness  for  company, 
of  love /or  love,  it  seems  to  me  very  exquisite,  though  very  sad.  I  sat 
in  the  window  till  the  light  had  faded,  the  song  growing  more  and 
more  restless  and  almost  expostulatory.  Soon  the  bird  flew  and  I 
heard  it  again  further  off;  and,  after  a  little,  it  seemed  to  have  flown 
yet  further,  and  its  now  -waning  notes  died  out  in  distance.  My  soul 
was  strangely  affected.  I  almost  ceased  to  be  conscious  of  my 
body.  Stealing  up  from  the  east,  the  moon  threw  a  light  on  the 
valley,  upyn  the  tops  and  edges  of  the  village  trees.      There  lay 


272  Norwood ;  or, 

Holj  oke  and  its  silent  fellows  brooding  in  sombre  silence.      I  was 
inexpressibly  sad.     I  seemed  alone,  helpless,  unhappy.    I  involun- 
tarily called  out,  '  My  God^  why  hast  thou  forsaken  me  ? '     What 
followed  I  can  account  for  only  as  a  phantasy.      Or  was  it  real  ? 
/s  there  still  an  inspiration?      I  did  not  thinh.      It  was  seeing 
rather !     The  whole  heaven  seemed  full  of  ineffable  gentleness.    It 
seemed  as  if  I  was  caught  up  into  it,  and  felt  borne  in  upon  mo 
a  sense  of  God's  care  for  me — his  love,  his  wisdom  in  guiding  me. 
A  wonderful  conviction  seemed  to  flow  in  on  me  that  I   should 
surely  be  brought  out  of  my  darkness,  and  that  all  this  trouble  of 
soul  was  like   the  trouble   which  a  seed  feels  when   yet  under 
ground — dying  that  it  may  sprout  and  live.     Then,  all  unbidden, 
there  sprung  up  in  me  such  a  desire  to  praise  God  as  I  had  never 
felt  before  or  imagined.     For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  had  a  con- 
ception of  infinite  love.    I  had  heard  the  words  before.    Now  I 
had  a  sense  of  the  thing  itself.     All  my  soul  seemed  urgent  to  ut- 
ter itself  and  I  could  not  speak  a  word  !      The  psalms  rushed  be- 
fore me  in  which  trees,  mountains,  sun,  moon,  stars,  all  nature, 
were  called  upon  to  join  in  praising  God.     But  how  strangely  dif- 
ferent in  effect !      Before,  I  had  read  them  as  one  hears  Handel's 
Messiah,  in  fragments,  on  a  piano.      I^Tow  it  was  as  I  imagine  the 
Messiah  to  have  been  when  thousands  of  singers  and  instruments 
gave   it  forth  in  all  its  grandeur   at  Westminster  Abbey.      Every 
thing  within  me  became  heroic.    I  Tjould  have  yielded  my  life  with 
ineffable  joy  to  please  God.     All  complaining  seemed  to  me  like 
dust  which  one  kicks  with  the  feet.      I  was  absorbed  and  almost 
identified  with  this  Universal  Presence.     And  now,  as  I  remember 
it,  the  strangest  part  of  the  experience,  though  at  the  time  it  did 
not  strike  me  as  such,  was  the  nourishing  pity  with  which  I  look- 
ed upon  myself.     I  seemed  to  comfort  myself,  as  if  my  higher  self 
was  consoling  a  lower  self.      I  felt  a  true  and  ineffable  pity  and 
sorrow  for  myself,  for  my  doubts  and  yearnings,  for  my  longing  am- 
bitions and  unsatisfied  strivings ;  and  it   seemed  to   be   borne   in 
upon  me,  in  a  way  such  as  no  words  could  have  done  it,  that  all  my 
faculties,  tendencies,  aspirations,  had  their  natural  and  perfect  ful- 
filment in  God,  and  not  in  attaining    any  thing  in  myself.     I  re- 
member a  sort  of  figure  that  seemed  to  come  forth  from  nature  to 
me — that  flowers  never  blossomed  inwardly,  into  themselves,  but 
outwardly,  into  the  light,  and  that  all  the  beauty  they  had,  either 


Villa(je  Life  in  Neio  England.  273 

of  foim  or  color,  was  what  they  borrowed  from  the  light  which  they        ^ 
received  and  reflected,  and  so  a  soul,  it  seemed  to  me,  was  never 
happy  or  beautiful  except  when  it  was  imfolding  into  God. 

"How  long  my  trance  lasted  I  cannot  say.     I  threw  myself 
upon  the  bed  without  undressing.     A  tide  of  tranquil  delight  gen- 
tly flowed  through  my  soul.   I  asked  myself  whether,  were  it  God's 
will,  I  could  yield  up  all  my  prospects  in  life.     The  mere  thouglit 
of  pleasing  God  seemed  rapturous.    I  repeated  '  Thy  will  be  done  ' 
and  the  effect  was  wonderful.      I  had  a  vision— shall  I  call  it— of 
the  divine  beauty,  and  of  a  realm  which  was  glorified  by  its  shining 
light,  and  all  my  desires,  personal  and  secular,  shrunk  and  faded. 
In  that  exceeding  light  and  beauty  I  seemed  to  myself  unutterably 
insignificant.      The  course  of  my  thoughts,  the  nature  of  my  feel- 
ings,  the  ambitions  and  pursuits   of  my  life,  seemed  under    a 
shadow— stained,  and  poor,  and  degrading.    I  never  imagined  be- 
fore what  it  meant  to  be  a  man,  nor  how  far  I  had  been  from  it. 
In  those  blissful  moments  I  tested  my  feelings  for  Rose.      If  any 
thing  in  my  life  had  before  seemed  to  me  pure  and  noble,  it  was  my 
hidden  love  for  that  noble  creature.     But  I  was  amazed  to  perceive 
how,  in  the  light  of  His  countenance,  the  very  fragrance  and  blos- 
som of  my  heart  seemed  rank  and  coarse.      My  whole  life  wither- 
ed, and  my  virtues  dropped  Hke  blackened  leaves.     And  yet  this 
unbeauty,  this  moral  poverty,  brought  joy.      Right  over  against 
me  rose  to  a  stately  height  the  conception  of  a  Being  whose  very 
nature  it  was,  spontaneously  and  with  deep  yearning,  to  love  and 
embrace  such  unworth.    I  remember  thinking— for  I  then  thougU, 
as  one  sees,  vast  ranges  of  truth  and  ideas  flying  at  once  before  me,' 
almost  without  succession  in  time— that  love  of  God  came  to  me 
as  I  had  seen  the  sun  pour  and  flame,  in  the  Spring,  upon  a  brown 
and  frozen  knoll,  and  pierce  it,  and   thaw  it,  and   warm   it,  and 
nourish  in  it  the  hidden  roots,  and  day  by  day  bring  them  out  in 
beauty.      So  it  seemed  that  God's  nature  fell  upon  mine.      How 
long  this  lasted  I  cannot  tell.     When  I  awoke  in  the  morning  I 
seemed  like  one  who  had  missed  his  latitude.      I  went  asleep  in 
summer  and  awaked  in  winter.     I  ran  to  the  window  and  saw  all 
things  as  I  had  been  wont  to  see  them.     Birds  were  singing— men 
and  boys  walking— wagons  rolling— the  smoke  rising  pale  against 
the  sky,  hardly  crooked  by  a  breath  of  wind.   The  vision  had  been 
caught  up.    In  its  place  was  the  great  working  world.      I  never 


274  Norwood ;  or, 

■was  so  sad  to  be  awake.  I  longed  for  something  lost.  Yet  I  am 
wonderfully  quieted.  I  do  know  that  there  is  a  realm  of  truth.  I 
cannot  well  be  made  to  believe  that  there  was  nothing  divine  in 
this  exaltation  and  spiritual  insight.  It  is  an  expressible  relief  to 
feel  a  certainty  that  nature  has  a  Master.  Now  I  will  seek  "Went- 
worth  again,  and  see  what  he  means  when  he  says  that  the  Bible 
interprets  nature,  and  that  nature  nourishes  the  truths  of  the  Bi- 
ble, and  that  they  are  parts  of  one  development,  and  in  harmony. 

'•'-July  1. — The  town  is  filling  with  strangers;  also  come  back 
acquaintances.  Young  Frank  Esel  has  come,  and  is  of  course 
much  at  "W.'s.  Exceeding  good  company.  His  genial  gayety  re- 
freshes me.  We  have  much  in  common.  I  don't  think  that  Rose 
can  flirt.  Yet  she  is  a  woman,  and  is  pleased  with  attention,  and 
seems  fond  of  Esel.  They  are  mnch  together.  They  work  to- 
gether, drawing  and  painting  in  the  open  air,  and  holding  large 
discourse. 

"  There  comes,  too,  this  summer,  one  Hey  wood,  from  Virginia. 
I  am  told  that  he  is  highly  accomplished,  and  I  perceive  that  he  is 
elegant.  I  met  him  once  or  twice,  and  am  drawn  to  him,  as  he 
seems  to  be  towards  me.  He  has  been  bred  to  the  Law,  and  is 
now  studying,  nominally,  with  Judge  Bacon.  He  wonders  that  I 
do  not  study  law.  I  am  every  day  more  inclined  to  do  it.  Hey- 
wood  does  not  intend  practising  Law.  He  tells  me  that  his  tastes 
lead  him  in  the  direction  of  Political  Economy,  to  which  in  reality 
he  devotes  most  of  the  time  which  is  supposed  to  be  spent  in  the 
Law. 

^^AuguH  1. — Something  has  happened  I  am  sure.  Frank  Esel 
seems  much  disturbed.  Rose  is  even  more  kind  to  him  than  be- 
fore. But  I  think  it  is  sisterly.  He  still  visits  much  at  the  doc- 
tor's. But  he  is  less  buoyant.  A  dash  of  sadness.  I  find  him 
looking  fixedly  at  me,  as  if  studying  my  innermost  thought.  Poor 
soul !    I  shall  not  be  in  his  way.     He  leaves  for  home  soon. 

"  I  learn  that  Heywood  is  to  be  heir  of  the  Chandler  property, 
and  that  he  is  to  reside  here.  He  has  property  in  the  South,  and 
if  he  inherits  the  Chandler  estate  he  will  be  one  of  the  wealthiest 
men  in  these  parts.  Chandler  is  said  to  be  worth  half  a  million. 
Chandler's  wife  and  Heywood's  mother  are  sisters,  so  that  there  is 
relationship  between  them.    He  lives  with  them  now.  -I  covet  his 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England.  275 

royal  ease  in  society.  IIo  is  charming  even  to  men,  and  I  do  not 
wonder  that  ladies  -welcome  his  attentions.  He  has  a  high  bear- 
ing without  haughtiness,  and  he  is  truly  considerate  of  every  one, 
and  kind  to  overflowing.  If  all  Southerners  are  such  as  he,  I  am 
henceforth  in  love  with  them.  Sucli  as  I  have  met,  however,  have 
been  different." 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

TOil   HEYWOOD. 

The  most  noisy  and  ostentatious  influences  of  summer  are  not 
those  wliicli  chiefly  shape  its  destiny.  It  is  the  sum  of  small  and 
even  inconspicuous  things,  acting  in  gentle  continuity,  that  give 
tone  aud  character  to  the  year.  Frosts,  that  in  summer  become 
dews  ;  dews,  that  in  winter  are  transformed  to  frosts ;  tiny  mosses 
and  silken  grasses ;  the  up-suckiug  of  moisture  by  hidden  and  silent 
roots  ;  the  fall  of  outworn  leaves,  and  their  conversion  to  mould ; 
the  silent  power  of  remote  orbs,  that  sheet  the  earth  with  light, 
pierce  it  with  heat,  that  move  the  tides,  and  swing  the  globe  itself 
around  its  circuit — these  undemonstrative  and  modest  influences — 
silent,  precious,  invisible  attractions — are  the  great  workers  of 
ITature. 

IsTor  is  the  analogy  wanting  in  the  soul  of  man.  The  influential 
agents  which  determine  destiny  are  often  so  soft  and  subtle  that 
the  very  touch  is  not  felt,  nor  the  presence  discovered  of  things 
which  change  or  fix  the  mind's  moods,  and,  with  constant  recur- 
rence, fashion  the  character. 

The  unexpressed  thoughts  of  Barton  Cathcart,  the  rising  and 
falling  doubts,  that  shifted  and  changed  like  the  sky-fleece  of  a 
summer  day,  were  wearing  channels  in  his  soul,  and  threatening  to 
undermine  his  life. 

Nor  could  he  tell  what,  at  length,  arrested  the  morbid  tendency, 
or  what,  gradually  and  gently  acting,  began  to  give  hope  and  health 
to  his  moral  nature.  Certain  it  was  that,  from  the  period  recorded 
in  his  journal,  the  disintegrating  tendency  of  his  mind  was  checked, 
and  a  constructive  tendency  was  established.  The  fascinations  of 
self-torment  seemed  to  have  spent  themselves.  It  is  true  that  the 
progress  toward  health  was  imperceptible  at  any  single  point.  But 
the  morbid  symptoms  had  been  checked,  and  a  curative  tendency 
had  been  established. 

Even  more  than  ever  before,  he  became  a  frequent  visitor  at 
Br.  "Wentworth's.  Much  he  talked  with  the  doctor,  and  much  with 
Eose;  but  never  respecting  himself.     It  was  his  wont  to  converse 


Village  Life  hi  New  En  (/I and,  271 

of  some  principle  or  process,  or  of  some  imagined  case,  althougli 
the  subject  matter  was  in  reality  his  own  experience. 

This  thin  veil  did  not  deceive  his  friends,  but  served  to  save  his 
delicacy,  and  secured  a  frankness  and  liberty  which  would  have 
been  otherwise  impossible  to  one  so  sensitive. 

Rose,  peculiarly  sagacious  in  penetrating  character,  discerned, 
in  a  certain  general  way,  and  appreciated  Barton's  state  of  mind. 
Nor  was  she  insensible  to  the  attractions  arising  from  the  very 
troubles  of  so  noble  a  nature. 

The  suffering  of  a  great  nature,  if  silently  borne  and  uncomplain- 
ingly, is  irresistibly  affecting.  In  Barton  there  was  the  greatest 
energy  and  the  greatest  helplessness,  the  strength  of  a  vigorous 
manhood  and  infantine  weakness.  To  common  eyes  his  lot  seemed 
eminently  fortunate.  He  was  the  envied  man  of  the  village. 
Every  one  predicted  the  most  auspicious  future.  But  Rose  knew 
that  all  the  outward  portion  was  hollowed  out  and  made  empty 
by  the  disquiet  of  his  mind. 

When  Cathcart  met  Rose  in  the  presence  of  others,  he  joined 
in  the  common  conversation  or  in  the  amusements  with  a  gayety 
that  rendered  his  presence  charming.  But  no  sooner  were  they 
thrown  together  alone  than  to  Rose  he  began  speaking  of  deeper 
themes,  and  in  a  tone  of  earnest,  and,  at  times,  almost  anguishful 
enthusiasm.  She  could  not  but  perceive  that  to  her  he  brought  the 
treasure  of  his  inmost,  deepest  nature.  Nor  could  Rose  hide  from 
herself  the  fascination  of  such  an  intercourse.  It  was  a  mute  ap- 
peal for  help.  This  unconscious  and  artless  flattery  was  exquisite. 
A  woman's  pity  often  opens  the  door  to  love. 

But  equally  strong  is  the .  need  of  looking  up,  of  worshipping. 
If  a  woman  must  lean,  she  needs  strength  to  lean  upon ;  if  she  must 
look  up,  then  there  must  be  some  one  higher  than  she ;  if  she  re- 
veres, there  must  be  to  her  imagination  something  of  divinity  to 
call  for  a  worship.  All  women  marry  gods,  but  sadly  consent 
afterwards  to  live  with  men.  The  quenching  of  their  resplendent 
imaginations,  the  discovery  and  full  conviction  that  the  husband 
cannot,  by  his  strength  and  goodness,  dominate  the  heart  and  be 
sovereign  in  love,  at  length  produce  a  great  crisis.  Some  easily 
yield  up  the  delusion,  call  it  romance,  and  consent  to  live  a  life 
of  feeble  and  fitful  love,  which  has  in  it  no  worship,  and  much 
3ontempt.     Others  there  are,  of  diviner  mould,  who  cannot  lose 


278  Norwood ;  or, 

faith  in  Love,  though  they  sadly  admit  that  they  have  missed  it. 
They  know  that  there  is  a  life  which  they  never  live;  that  there 
might  arise  out  of  their  hearts  a  love  so  great,  so  pure,  so  command- 
ing and  satisfying,  that  all  other  experiences  of  fortune  would,  in 
comparison,  be  of  little  moment.  Royalty  and  Fortune  have  no 
light  to  fill  the  vault  of  life  when  Love  Ls  eclipsed  or  has  gone  down. 
But  if  Love  be  regent  every  other  light  may  go  out  and  it  will  fill 
the  life  with  a  light  that  shall  make  poverty  itself  luminous,  and 
sickness  and  toil  bright  and  joyous. 

Many  and  many  a  heart  there  is  that  has  missed  its  aim,  con- 
fessed its  defeat.  Some  then  distribute  their  affections  in  many 
channels,  as  if  to  gain  by  diffusion  what  they  have  lost  in  concen- 
trated form.  Some  bury  their  Love  and  keep  watch  as  over  a 
sepulchre,  with  sorrow,  and  yet  with  hope.  Hope  on !  '  There  is 
a  resurrection  for  every  true  heart  that  suffering  for  love,  is  faith- 
ful to  the  end ! 

Kose  was  one  of  the  few  who  knew  beforehand,  and  as  by  an 
inspiration,  that  she  must  love  upward,  and  that  the  man  to  whom 
her  heart  should  go  forth  must  be  found  on  no  downward  path,  nor 
on  any  level,  but  along  an  upward  road.  It  was  the  want  of  that 
over-shadowing  power  in  Barton,  the  want  of  that  commanding 
energy,  which  held  her  affections  in  warm  friendship,  but  failed  to 
ripen  them  into  love.  And  so  long  as  Barton  was  not  the  master 
of  himself — so  long  as  he  carried  a  divided  life,  and  uncertain  and 
vacillating  hopes,  he  could  not  rise  to  that  calmness  of  strength 
and  loftiness  of  soul  which  draw  men  to  a  great  nature,  as  birds 
are  drawn  to  build  and  sing  in  the  boughs  of  a  great  tree. 

But,  whatever  might  have  been  the  result  had  Barton  pressed 
his  suit  with  Rose,  he  was  unconsciously  led  in  a  wiser  way. 

Some  of  his  feelings  we  have  seen  in  the  record  of  his  journal. 
But  he  was  not  destined  to  maintain  his  honorable  reserve  without 
some  painful  struggles.  The  appearance  in  Norwood  of  Mr.  Thomas 
J.  Hey  wood  was  an  event  intimately  connected  with  his  whole 
after  life. 

Heywood's  mother  had  an  only  sister  living  here,  and  that  fact, 
joined  to  the  reputation  of  the  place  for  health  and  beautiful  sce- 
nery, led  him  to  choose  Norwood  in  preference  to  any  of  the  hun- 
dred points  of  attraction  in  New  England  for  a  summer's  resort. 
Ko"  considerable  intimacy  had  existed  between  these  two  sisters. 


Village  Life  in  New  Enc/layid.  275 

His  mother  had  married  early  and  always  had  lived  in  the  South. 
Visits  had,  to  be  sure,  been  occasionally  interchanged ;  but  that 
was  all.  They  loved  each  other  because  they  had  the  same  mother, 
and  because  they  lived  hundreds  of  miles  apart.  Had  they  lived 
together,  utterly  different  tastes  and  associations  would  have  pro- 
duced discord.  As  it  was,  each  imagined  the  other  to  be  what 
she  wished  her  to  be. 

Heywood,  or  as  he  always  called  himself  and  was  called  in  his 
home,  Tom  Heywood,  was  about  Barton's  age,  of  peculiarly  win- 
ning manners,  uniting  a  certain  lofty  air  to  a  genial  familiarity. 

To  be  reared  in  wealth  may  or  may  not  be  a  blessing.  But  to 
inherit  a  sound  constitution,  a  mind  of  good  quality  and  inclining 
to  moral  and  intellectual  pursuits,  a  disposition  elastic  and  cheery, 
surely  this  is  to  be  born  to  fortune.  If  to  this  be  added  the  society 
of  cultivated  people,  and  companions  who  both  love  and  admire 
one,  it  may  well  be  expected  that  a  young  man's  head  would  be 
slightly  turned.  Tom  Heywood's  head,  however,  stood  quite  wel) 
upon  his  shoulders,  and  he  showed  very  little  spoiling.  It  is  prob- 
able that  he  perceived  the  good  impression  which  he  made  wherever 
he  went.  The  flattering  cordiality  with  which  his  advances  had 
always  been  received  had  not  tended  wholly  toward  humility.  In 
honest  truth,  there  was  a  gentle  impression  in  his  mind  that  he 
was  very  attractive,  and  that  when  he  should  find  a  woman  of 
qualities  admirable  enough,  he  had  only  to  pass  through  the  dec- 
orous processes  of  approach  and  acquaintance,  and  to  propose 
himself  to  her  with  due  ardor,  to  be  duly  and  heartily  accepted. 
This  slightest  bit  of  conceit  was  almost  unknown  to  himself.  It  was 
the  unconscious  effect  upon  a  sensible  and  honorable  nature  of 
having  been  a  supreme  favorite  from  childhood.  But  it  did  not 
stain  through  and  affect  his  manners.  It  remained  latent,  re- 
strained from  expression  by  good  sense  and  good  breeding.  On  his 
first  visit  to  Norwood  he  spent  but  a  summer,  visiting  very  little 
except  in  his  aunt's  family.  So  well  was  he  pleased,  that  the  next 
season  he  returned  early,  and  with  the  purpose  of  study  as  well  as 
amusement.  And  although  for  a  time  he  preferred  rooms  at  the 
Mansion  House,  toward  autumn  he  £.ccepted  the  continuous  solici- 
tations of  his  aunt  and  her  husband,  and  became  a  member  of 
their  family,  and  took  the  place  of  a  son,  their  only  child,  who 
had  died  a  few  years  before,  just  as  he  was  entering  upon  man- 
13 


280  Nortvood ;  or, 

hood.  It  was  said  by  those  who  thought  they  knew,  that  it  was 
Josiah  Chandler's  intention  to  make  Heywood  his  heir.  However 
this  may  have  been,  there  can  be  no  reasonable  doubt  that  Mrs. 
Chandler  proposed  in  her  heart  to  secure  that  for  him  which  it 
had  been  the  hope  of  her  life  to  secure  for  her  son — a  connection 
with  the  Wentworths.  And  during  the  summer  of  1859,  and  the 
winter  following,  Tom  Heywood  was  very  generally  spoken  of  as 
Rose's  suitor.  But  the  same  thing  had  been  said  of  Frank  Esel, 
of  Barton  Cathcart,  and  of  several  others,  and  ah.  the  stories  about 
Tom  Heywood  might  have  been  just  as  baseless. 

Until  we  learn  something  about  it  from  the  parties  themselves, 
it  may  be  as  well  to  imagine  that  we  know  nothing  about  it. 

We  prefer  to  let  Heywood  give  his  own  impressions  of  I^or 
wood  and  its  people. 

HEYWOOD  TO  HIS  BROTHER. 

"  My  Dear  Hal  : — In  spite  of  your  predictions,  I  am  settled 
in  Norwood !  It  is  not  a  huge  jumble  of  bricks,  as  you  predicted, 
nor  a  noisy  manufacturing  town  swarming  with  operatives.  On 
the  contrary,  I  find  an  extremely  attractive  village,  of  a  few 
thousand  inhabitants,  nestled  down  close  upon  the  Connecticut 
river,  and  in  sight  of  goodly  hUls.  To  be  sure,  these  mountains, 
as  they  are  here  called,  would  cut  a  sorry  figure  by  the  side  of  the 
mountains  in  old  Virginia,  but  t^^ey  are  quite  promising  in  their 
way.  I  quite  admire  the  good  taste  and  snugness  of  these  Yankee 
houses.  Especially  do  I  approve  of  setting  back  the  houses  and 
separating  them  from  the  street  by  deep  ornamental  yards.  There 
is  an  air  of  elegance  and  seclusion  given  to  the  buildings  which,  if, 
like  our  village  houses,  they  were  placed  on  the  very  line  of  the 
street  without  shrubbery  or  grounds,  they  would  utterly  fail  of 
having. 

"  Behold  me,  then,  prying  and  spying,  sharp  as  a  lynx,  but 
just  as  a  judge — a  political  economist  of  whom  Henry  C.  Carey 
need  not  be  ashamed !  Expect  from  me  no  vain  discourses  of 
sport ;  nothing  of  horses  or  hounds  ;  nothing  of  hunting  or  fishing ; 
nothing  of  frivolous  pleasures,  which  I  am  expected  suitably  to 
look  down  upon.  I  am  in  Puritan  Xew  England  !  Already  I 
feel  my  face  sensibly  longer.     My  features  are  changing  into  a 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  281 

sharper  and  more  inflexible  cast !  I  no  longer  spend  my  money 
needlessly — no ;  I  am  infected  with  economy — I  ask  the  price  of 
every  thing,  turn  it  over  with  an  inspecting  eye,  as  if  weighing 
the  great  question  of  the  relation  of  price  to  cost  of  production. 
I  pay  with  slowness,  and  count  the  change  with  solemnity. 
'  "When  you  are  among  the  Romans,'  etc.  The  nasal  twaug  I  am 
practising.  If  you  should  come  hither,  do  not  look  for  a  chestnut- 
haired,  blue-eyed  young  fellow,  with  a  cherry  cravat  flaming  at 
his  throat,  a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  laughing  loud  enough  to  be 
heard  all  over  the  village ;  look  for  a  precise  young  gentleman, 
stepping  with  only  less  formality  than  is  required  at  a  funeral,  and 
looking  as  earnest  and  as  anxious  as  such  eyes  and  features  can — 
then  recognize  your  friend !  How  long  I  shall  enjoy  my  meta- 
morphosis I  cannot  predict ;  but  it  is  certain  that  I  am  amused  at 
my  own  propriety  thus  far. 

"  I  will  keep  you  advised,  every  few  weeks,  of  my  affairs,  and 
shall  expect  in  return  a  full  disclosure  of  all  at  home,  which  I 
hardly  dare  think  about  for  fear  an  unmanly  home-sickness  may 
befall  me.     But,  good-bye !     Be  virtuous,  and  you  shall  be  happy  I 

"Toil  Heywood. 

"-P. /SI — I  have  just  come  in  from  a  stroll,  since  writing  the 
above,  and  my  vanity  is  a  little  piqued.  I  overheard  one  of  the 
young  clerks  saying  to  another,  '  I  know  that  fellow  is  Southern, 
by  the  free  and  easy  way  he  uses  money !  '  So  all  my  efforts  are 
no  deception!  What  would  they  think  if  they  saw  me  at 
home? 

"Anotherthing,— and  horrible  to  relate,— I  have  just  learned 
that  there  is  a  race-ground  at  Springfield,  hardly  twenty  miles 
froxn  here !  Is  this  New  England  ?  Have  I  not  held  my  peace, 
as  if  even  to  speak  of  field-sports  would  banish  me  from  all  respect  ? 
I  am  informed  that  while  racing  is  discouraged,  trotting  is  so  much 
in  vogue,  that,  in  agricultural  fairs,  it  constitutes  the  chief  attrac- 
tion ! 

"How  does  that  compare  with  our  notions  of  Puritan  strict- 
ness ?  Who  knows  but  I  may  find  out  that  this  gelid  land  and 
rigorous  people  may  have,  under  their  ribs,  as  much  heart  aa 
Virginians  have,  with  only  a  different  way  of  showing  it  ? 

"  I  must  draw  rein,  or  my  postscript  will  be  longer  than  my 


282  Norwood ;  or, 

letter.  A  woman's  postscript,  you  know,  is  said  to  contain  the 
gist  of  the  letter,  or,  as  you  would  sav,  the  letter  is  the  pistol,  and 
the  postscript  the  bullet.     Again,  fair  thee  well !  t.  h." 

HEYWOOD  TO  HIS  BROTHER. 

"  Thanks,  dear  Hal,  for  yonr  long  and  substantial  letter.  You 
are  the  best  of  all  correspondents. 

"  Your  letters  are  pictures.  Strange,  that  a  sheet  of  paper, 
with  mere  lines  and  blotches,  should  bring  before  the  mind  more 
clearly  than  painting  could  do  objects  which  they  only  suggest  by 
the  law  of  association,  but  don't  represent  in  the  slightest  degree 
in  form  or  color !  After  reading  your  letter,  do  I  not  see  the  dear 
old  home  in  living  form?  father — tall,  dignified,  fiery,  and  yet 
running  over  with  kindness — every  day  blazing  out  at  something, 
and  yet  cheery,  placable,  and  generous  to  a  fault? 

"Do  I  not  see  Sue  and  Mary  romping?  and  young  Hilly er, 
with  that  good-natured,  boastful  tongue,  running  like  Miller  Gibbs's 
wheel, — foam  without,  and  yet  grinding  good  grain  within?  I 
really  felt  a  qualm  of  home-sickness  as  I  read  your  charming  ac- 
count of  matters — coming  in  early  from  the  garden  with  flowers 
for  the  breakfast  table.  But  home-sickness  is  unweanedness.  Its 
existence  and  severity  show  how  much  need  there  was  of  remov- 
ing from  home,  and  of  learning  to  live  by  one's  self. 

"  I  am  sure  I  have  enough  to  do,  and  matters  of  a  kind  con- 
genial to  my  tastes.  I  am  studying  this  Yankee  people  with  the 
utmost  zest.  Of  course,  many  of  them  are  like  our  own  folks. 
Cultivated  people  are  always  more  or  less  alike  the  world  over. 
On  that  very  account  one  studies  the  middle  and  lower  classes  for 
distinctive  characters,  as  there,  if  anywhere,  is  apt  to  be  found 
originality  and  eccentricity.  I  had  an  impression  that  the  rigor 
of  Puritan  morals,  and  a  coercive  public  sentiment,  held  every 
thing  here  down  to  set  patterns,  and  that  I  should  find  a  dreary 
sameness  of  a  kind  not  very  interesting.  But  the  under  people 
here  are  rich  in  peculiarities.     They  open  up  well  already. 

"  In  the  South  there  is  more  liberty  of  action^  and  in  the  ITorth 
of  thought.  Law  is  not  so  strong  among  us.  A  population 
thinly  scattered  through  wide  territory  are  obliged  to  take  their 
affairs  into  their  own  hands,  and  are  less  likely  to  wait  for  redress 
pr  opportunity  for  the  slow  process  of  law.     Men  here  live  in 


Village  Life  in  Neiv  England.  283 

attrition,  yet  universally  respect  tlie  law.  Among  the  lower 
classes  Law  is  put  instead  of  Religion.  Yesterday  a  man  had  been 
aggrieved  by  a  neighbor.  I  heard  him  say,  in  a  great  passion, 
*ril  have  the  law  of  him  if  there's  any  justice  in  the  land.'  Had 
it  been  in  Virginia,  the  man  would  have  thrashed  the  offender  on 
the  spot,  and  settled  his  grievance  without  judge  or  jury. 

"  I  hardly  know  how  to  convey  my  impressions  of  Yankee 
activity.  It  is  something  fearful  to  me.  Leisure  and  laziness 
seem  to  be  regarded  as  equivalents.  There  is  a  constant  pushing 
industry.  I  see  this  strikingly  in  the  conveniences  about  their 
dwellings.  Almost  every  house  might  be  studied  by  our  people 
to  learn  how  many  comforts  and  economies  may  be  concentrated 
in  a  dwelling  without  expense,  except  of  wit  and  skill. 

"  I  should  never  have  known  but  for  this  IsTew  England  ex- 
perience what  wealth  there  is  in  economy.  And  what  economy 
is  possible  when  people  put  as  much  thought  and  earnestness  into 
every  detail  of  life  as  they  do  here !  It  is  a  perfect  study  and 
amusement  to  me.  Brought  up  to  hear  the  Yankee  stigmatized 
as  stingy  and  mean,  I  cannot  divest  myself  of  a  certain  contempt 
for  their  minute  frugality,  and  their  everlasting  calculations,  and 
the  repression  of  impulse  in  favor  of  principle,  or  foresight,  or 
prudence  of  some  sort  or  other. 

"  I  cannot  better  illustrate  the  traits  of  some  of  this  people  than 
in  giving  an  account  of  a  fellow  called  Hiram  Beers,  who  seems  to 
have  an  eye  on  this  whole  community,  and  whose  tongue  walks 
to  and  fro  and  cuts  like  a  razor.  He  is  a  wag,  and  yet  as  far  from 
being  a  fool  as  he  is  from  being  a  gentleman. 

"Did  I  tell  you  that  I  had  bought  a  horse  ? — a  Morgan  horse — • 
with  his  hoofs  filled  with  steel  springs,  and  his  eyes  with  lambent 
fire? 

"  But  I  must  not  take  the  credit  of  buying,  but  of  only  con- 
senting to  his  purchase.  Hiram  Beers  is  my  good  angel.  By  the 
way,  if  you  were  to  call  him  Beers,  nobody  would  know  whom 
you  meant,  on  a  week  day.  Hiram  is  his  name.  And  though 
there  may  be  a  hundred  Hirams  hereabouts,  only  he  is  Hiram  ! 

"  You  might  search  all  the  Old  Dominion  for  such  a  specimen 
and  not  find  it.  He  is  the  growth  of  this  community,  as  much  as 
air  plants  are  of  the  tropics.  He  is  a  mixture  of  deacon,  doctor, 
jockey,  jester  and  philosopher — if  you  can  imagine  what  that  com- 


284  Norwood;  or, 

pound  would  be.  He  is  of  that  nervous  temperament  that  sleeps 
little,  eats  little,  works  incessantly,  thinks  and  talks  for  his  own 
mere  relief.  And  yet,  contradictory  as  it  may  sound,  he  produces 
the  impression  on  you  of  a  shrewd,  eautious  and  considerate  man. 
He  is  always  saying  some  humorous  thing,  and  giving  half -laughs 
as  if  he  had  thought  of  something  else  and  could  not  afford  the 
rest  of  a  laugh.  He  knows  every  body  that  ever  lived  in  Nor- 
wood. Every  summer,  when  the  town  is  thronged,  Hiram  knows 
who  has  come,  where  he  stays,  when  he  goes.  It  is  the  same, 
apparently,  for  the  whole  neighborhood.  And  as  for  horses,  his 
knowledge  is  intuitive,  and  almost  a  homely  omniscience. 

"Behold  me  then,  sitting  in  the  office  of  the  Mansion  House, 
the  very  disciple  of  this  cute  and  curious  Yankee  teacher ! 

"  '  Beers,  I  want  a  good  horse ' 

"'My  name  is  Hiram; — I  keep  Beers  for  Sunday.  When  I 
get  my  meetin'  clo's  on,  I  expect  folks  to  call  me  Beers,  or  Hiram 
Beers;  but  week  days  I  go  and  come  on  Hiram.  What  was  you 
sayin'  ? ' 

" '  Can  you  tell  me  where  to  look  for  a  good  horse  ? 

"'Wal,  Bledsoe's  got  abeout  the  best  steppin' creetur  that  I 
know  of.  Can  do  it  in  about  two-thirty,  and  do  it  every  time ; 
sound  as  a  knot ;  hain't  a  scratch  on  her ;  silk  feels  coarse  after 
ye  take  yer  hand  off  her  hide ;  and  the  lovin'ist  eye  ye  ever  saw 
in  a  man's  head,  or  a  woman's  either.' 

" '  What  does  he  ask  for  her  ? ' 

"  '  Wal,  I  don't  know,'  said  Hiram,  glancing  at  one  or  two  per- 
sons present,  and  then  looking  steadily  out  of  the  window  for  a 
minute.  '  I  guess  you'll  have  to  wait  till  he's  sold  oft' every  thing 
else  pretty  much  down  to  her.  After  he's  sold  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren, I  expect  you  may  get  a  bargain  out  of  him  for  the  mare.' 

"  '  But  I  asked  you  for  a  horse  that  I  could  'buy? 

"  '  Mebbe  you  did.  But  all  I  heerd  you  say  was, — Can  you  tell 
me  where  I  can  look  for  a  good  horse  ?  l!Tow  you  can  look  at 
Bledsoe's  horse  for  a  year  runnin',  and  he  won't  charge  you 
nothin'.' 

.  "  I  colored  a  little,  but  Hiram  did  not  move  a  feature,  or  look 
away  from  an  empty  fireplace  into  which  every  now  and  then  he 
squirted  a  volley  of  tobacco  spittle. 

"  Presuming  that  I  had  neglected  a  proper  fee,  and  that  there 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  285 

was  the  rub,  after  a  few  minutes  I  quietly  slipped  a  dollar  bill  into 
his  hand.  Slowly  unrolling  it,  he  examined  the  engraving,  read 
the  signatures,  held  it  up  to  the  light,  and  then  gravely  handed  it 
back  to  me. 

"  '  Yes,  Mr.  Heywood,  that's  a  good  bill — ginooine — no  coun- 
terfeit about  it.' 

"  'Keep  it,  Hiram — keep  it.' 

"  '  What  should  I  keep  it  for  ?   You  don't  owe  me  any  thing! ' 

'"Well,  Hiram,  I  ought  to  pay  you  for  any  information  I  can 
get.' 

"  '  Oh,  you  think  the  information  about  Bledsoe's  mare  is 
worth  a  dollar,  do  ye  ?  Wal,  I  don't.  Put  up  your  money  to  pay 
your  debts  with.  When  I've  airnt  it,  it'll  be  time  to  pay  me.  If 
you  want  me  to  lay  myself  out  for  you  on  a  good  horse,  say  so, 
and  then  I'll  tell  ye  what  I'll  do  it  for.  I  don't  want  no  charity 
yet' 

" '  Very  well.  I  wish  a  good  horse,  as  good  a  horse  as  can  be 
had,  without  going  to  an  extravagant  price,  and  I  am  willing  to 
pay  your  expenses  and  trouble  if  you  will  serve  me.' 

"  'I'll  show  you  five  good  creturs,  and  if  any  of  'em  suit  you, 
you  may  pay  me  ten  dollars ;  and  if  I  fetch  you  five  more,  you 
may  pay  me  fifteen,  and  then  if  you  ain't  suited,  I  can't  please  you.' 

"  A  few  days  afterwards,  I  was  called  down  to  try  a  horse.  It 
was  a  picture !  Black  as  a  coal,  and  not  a  spot  on  him.  Docile 
and  obedient,  but  with  immense  spirit.  I  had  not  driven  a  half 
mile  before  I  was  satisfied. 

"  '  Hiram,  this'll  do.    I'll  take  him.     What's  the  price  ? ' 

"  'Well,  now,  you  was  born  down  South,  war'nt  you?  If  you 
had  been  born  along  the  Connecticut  you'd  asked  the  price  first, 
and  held  off  a  good  bit,  afore  you  let  a  fellow  know  whether  you 
was  pleased  or  not.  Howsumever,  it's  all  right.  I  thought  I'd 
try  you,  and  so  I  brought  the  best  one  first.  If  you'd  neglected 
this,  you'd  sartainly  have  got  a  poor  one.' 

"  '  Well,  I  like  him  so  much,'  said  I,  the  next  day, '  that  I  am 
willing  to  pay  you  twice  as  much  as  I  promised,'  offering  him  two 
ten  dollar  bills.  Hiram  took  one  of  them,  folded  it  carefully,  put 
it  in  his  wallet,  and  then  looking  in  an  amusing  way  at  the  head 
of  some  president  of  a  bank,  engraved  on  the  other  bill,  he  began 
to  soliloquize.     '  Yes,  old  fellow — president  of  a  bank — no  doubt 


286  Norwood ;  or, 

ricli  as  medder  land.  Made  it  all  yourself,  too.  I  s'poseyon  bought 
at  just  what  folks  said.  I  s'pose  you  paid  twice  as  much  as  you 
promised!  That's  the  way  hereabouts  in  New  England.  That's 
the  way  to  get  rich,'  and  with  that  he  laughed  down  in  his  belly, 
though  only  a  sniff  or  two  came  out  of  his  face.  Handing  me  back 
my  money,  with  very  much  the  benignant  air  with  which  a  relax- 
ing father  gives  back  a  forfeited  jackknife  to  a  repentant  boy,  he 
lectured  me  in  a  most  edifying  manner. 

"  '  I've  seen  a  good  many  men  from  your  parts.  They  come  up 
here  every  summer,  and  are  very  flush  of  money.  They  think 
they  can  buy  every  body.  They  fall  in  with  a  low  sort  of  people 
and  foreigners,  mere  hangers-on,  and  such  creturs  will  take  as  long 
as  you  will  give.  Lord,  sir,  they  are  like  a  barrel  with  two  bung- 
holes,  one  atop  and  the  other  under.  You  may  pour  in  all  day 
and  they  won't  fill  up.  But  they  are  not  our  people.  The  fact  is, 
we  northern  men  work  hard,  and  have  to.  We  know  the  value 
of  time,  and  stuff,  and  work,  and  if  we  weren't  close  as  bark  we 
should  all  be  in  the  poorhouse.  But  there  is  a  sight  of  difference 
between  being  tight  and  being  mean.  If  a  man  aims  his  money 
he  has  a  right  to  it,  and  to  the  last  cent  jest  as  much  as  to  the 
first.  And  if  a  man  hasn't  airn'dit,  he's  a  mean  cuss  if  he  takes  it 
anyhow,  unless  he's  extremely  old,  very  lame,  and  hain't  got  no 
children,  nor  relations,  and  is  afeerd  of  goin'  to  the  poorhouse. 
That's  the  very  difference  between  an  Irishman  and  a  Yankee  ;  a 
Yankee  wants  his  own  money,  an  Irishman  wants  yours.'' 

"  I  was  too  much  amused  to  find  fault  with  Hiram's  airs,  espe- 
cially as  he  gave  me  to  understand  that  he  highly  esteemed  my 
judgment  in  stable  matters,  and,  in  the  under  society  of  the  town, 
you  may  be  sure  Hiram's  opinion  established  my  reputation  ;  for 
he  is  the  oracle." 


HEYWOOD  TO  HIS  BROTHER. 

"My  Dear  Hal: — You  rally  me  upon  the  character  of  my 
acquaintances,  and  compliment  me  upon  the  improvement  which 
will  appear  when  I  return  from  this  elysium  of  gardens,  workmen, 
hostlers,  &c.  It  would  be  a  pity  that  you  should  fail  of  your  own 
enjoyment,  since  I  certainly  have  mine.  "Working  people,  in  a 
community  where  work  is  the  badge  of  servitude,  cannot  repre- 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  28'' 

sent  the  value  and  personal  excellence  of  working  men  in  a  differ- 
ent state  of  society  where  nothing  is  more  honorable  than  labor  ; 
where  all,  more  or  less,  perform  it;  where  men  are  taught  from 
childhood  that  manliness  and  honor  require  one  to  be  personally 
as  much  as  possible  independent  of  others'  help,  and  to  perform 
with  one's  person  a  large  part  of  the  offices  which,  with  us,  ser- 
vants are  expected  to  render.  So  much,  at  least,  I  have  already 
found  out.  As  a  student  of  political  economy,  I  begin  to  perceive 
facts  and  truths  about  this  northern  population,  which  I  could 
never  have  learned  but  by  living  among  them.  The  common  peo- 
ple of  such  communities  give  tone  and  character  to  society,  more 
than  do  the  educated  people.  For  they  are  intelligent,  inquisitive, 
endlessly  curious  of  knowledge,  and  accustomed  to  dispute  and 
argue  every  question  that  arises.  They  are  readers  of  books  and 
devourers  of  newspapers.  It  would  be  impossible  to  find  in  all 
New  England,  in  the  remotest  and  rudest  portions,  such  neighbor- 
hoods of  hopeless  ignorance  as  we  have  at  home,  on  every  hand. 

"  But  you  inquire  what  other  acquaintances  I  have  formed  ? 
Many,  and  most  agreeable  ones.  What  intimacies  have  ensued  ? 
Well,  but  one  companionship  as  yet.  I  am  becoming  warmly  in- 
terested in  a  young  man  here,  who  has  been  •  teaching  here  since 
he  left  college,  and  who  designed  studying  for  the  pulpit.  But 
some  trouble  of  mind,  I  know  not  what,  seems  to  shut  that  avenue, 
and  he  is  now,  in  his  leisure,  studying  law  with  Judge  Bacon,  and 
so  we  are  much  thrown  together. 

"I  suspect  that  there  is  more  than  the  love  of  science  that 
takes  Barton  Cathcart  to  Dr.  Wentworth's  house.  There  is  a  Miss 
Eose  Wentworth,  you  should  understand,  whom,  not  her  features, 
but  her  expression  makes  handsome.  When  her  face  kindles,  as 
it  easily  does,  it  is  surprisingly  attractive.  Quite  learned,  I  am 
told,  and  especially  a  lover  of  the  fields  and  forest,  as  all  maidens, 
at  the  sentimental  period  of  their  lives,  are  or  ought  to  be.  This 
inclination  was  inherited  from  her  father,  Dr.  Eeuben  Wentworth, 
and  the  tendency  became  fixed  by  his  careful  education  of  his 
daughter.  This  I  am  told  by  friends  of  the  doctor,  who  look  upon 
him  not  only  as  a  man  of  remarkable  skill  in  his  profession,  but  as 
an  original  nature  in  as  utter  contrast  with  the  surrounding  people 
as  an  opal  is  with  the  rock  in  which  it  is  imbedded.  Judge  Bacon, 
an  astute  New-England  man,  himself  a  notable  character,  calls  Dr. 
13* 


288  Norwood. 

Wentwortli  an  idealistic  naturalist  with  a  practical  shell  on.  By 
the  way,  Barton's  own  sister  and  his  only  one,  Miss  Alice  Cathcart, 
was  at  Dr.  Wentworth's  yesterday.  Like  her  brother,  she  is 
brunette.  Both  of  them  have  high  blood — I  know  it  by  the  clear- 
ness of  the  features,  the  fine  lines  of  the  lips.  The  whole  face  and 
form  represent  the  higher  human  element — moral  sentiments  and 
intelligence,  more  than  the  animal  nature  ;  and  this  is  what  I  call 
high  breeding. 

"  The  two  young  ladies,  Miss  Rose  and  Miss  Alice,  are  of  one 
age  to  a  night  and  a  day,  and  call  themselves  the  twins  with  two 
mothers. 

"My  acquaintances  are  limited  and  casual.  "With  Judge  Bacon, 
more  than  with  any  oue,  I  have  had  familiar  intercourse.  He  is 
one  who  might  have  been  born  in  Virginia.  What  higher  compli- 
ment could  I  pay  ? 

"  But  I  find  many  Southern  families  here,  and  were  I  so  minded 
I  might  pass  my  time  from  morning  to  night  in  agreeable  compauy. 
But  I  have  other  ends  in  view  than  mere  amusement.  Do  not 
smile  when  I  say  that  I  am  reading  diligently.  Why  should  I 
bore  you  -^'xXhthatJ  I  know  that  you  would  rather  hear  of 
sports,  horses,  people — and  so  I  have  written !  " 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

IIEYWOOD   KETUENS ESEL    DEPAETS. 

While  Ileywood  was  spending  the  winter  at  his  father's  house, 
luul  enjoying  all  the  recreations  which  abounded  in  the  hospitable 
old  Virginian  mansion,  he  found  himself  unwittingly  thrown  into 
an  attitude  of  defence  of  his  ISTorthern  friends.  Although  he  was 
thoroughly  Southern  in  his  prepossessions  and  prejudices,  yet  he 
was  highly  endowed  with  the  sentiment  of  justice,  and  it  was  not 
consistent  with  his  honorable  nature  to  hear  his  late  acquaintances 
undervalued  and  stigmatized,  when  he  knew  the  imputations  to  be 
unjust.  The  same  thing  had  happened  reversely  while  he  was  at 
Norwood.  Thus,  in  the  North  he  defended  the  South  and  opposed 
Northern  prejudices,  and  in  the  South  he  defended  much  which  he 
had  witnessed  in  Northern  society,  and  opposed  the  violent  tone 
which  prevailed  among  his  companions.  He  was  not  one  of  those 
whose  pride  it  is,  returning  from  foreign  travel,  to  boast  that  they 
have  seen  nothing  worthy  of  imitation  in  all  their  journeys— a  con- 
fession that  they  have  learned  nothing,  and  well  nigh  an  evidence 
that  they  are  capable  of  learning  nothing.  Of  a  studious  and 
reflective  turn  of  mind,  he  had  eagerly  observed  and  reasoned 
upon  the  interior  facts  of  Northern  society,  and  particularly  its 
industry  and  its  universal  education.  He  had  not  succeeded  in 
breaking  away  from  those  fatal  notions  of  political  economy 
instilled  into  his  own  generation,  nor  did  he  yet  see  clearly  the 
philosophic  explanation  of  that  diversified  industry  and  universal 
prosperity  which  he  beheld.     But  he  was  on  the  way. 

The  prejudices  of  his  friends,  which  once  were  his  also,  served 
to  show  him  how  far  he  was  changed. 

"  Come,  Tom,"  said  his  favorite  sister,  "  be  a  good  boy  and 
own  how  much  better  you  like  the  South  than  you  do  that  mean 
New  England." 

"  Most  certainly,  fair  Kate,  I  prefer  the  South,  but  without 
prejudice  to  New  England.  You  ought  to  think  well  of  a  land 
which  gave  you  such  a  mother  as  ours." 


290  Norwood ;  or, 

"  Ah !  mother  came  away  from  the  Xorth  when  she  was  but 
seventeen ;  and  then  slie  was  of  good  family,  and  never  worked 
for  a  living." 

"  It  is  true  that  she  did  not ;  hut  lier  mother  did.  Her  father 
was  a  farmer's  boy,  and  made  his  fortune  by  integrity  and  industry. 
Every  one  respected  him  for  his  solid  worth." 

"No  matter,  Tom  ;  mother  is  a  Virginian  and  not  a  Yankee. 
All  her  habits  and  thoughts  have  been  formed  here,  and  every 
body  says  that  she  is  a  true  specimen  of  a  Southern  lady." 

"  I  am  not  a  whit  behind  you  in  love  for  mother  and  admira- 
tion for  our  own  native  State  ;  but  if  you  mean  to  imply  that  only 
in  the  South  can  be  found  gentlemen  and  ladies  of  the  highest 
breeding,  I  cannot  go  with  you.  Xay,  I  know  from  my  own  obser- 
vations that  this  very  ]!s"ew  England,  which  you  so  little  know,  or 
you  would  not  so  detest  it,  is  full  of  families  that  no  man  can  but 
respect  and  admire.  I  speak  from  my  own  knowledge.  No  one 
could  see  Farmer  Cathcart,  who  works  daily  for  his  living,  and 
not  respect  his  sturdy  independence  and  admire  his  great  intelli- 
gence. His  daughter  Alice, — ah !  Kate,  if  she  were  here  you 
would  need  to  look  out  for  your  laurels.  But  even  she  would  not 
command  your  admiration  so  much  as  Eose  TTentworth  would." 

"  Well  done,  Tom !  "  cried  his  beautiful  sister,  who  was  as 
fierce  as  a  dove,  and  as  restful  as  a  humming  bird,  and  full  as 
dangerous,  and  whose  duty  it  seemed  to  be,  on  all  proper  occasions, 
to  manifest  a  State  patriotism.  "  Well  done,  Tom  ;  1  wonder 
that  you  ever  came  back  single !  Pray,  why  did  you  not  bring 
one  of  those  high-born  Yankee  dames  with  you,  to  outshine  us 
all  ?  " 

"  Stranger  things  than  that  have  happened.  If  your  father 
went  to  New  England  for  a  wife,  why  shouldn't  his  son?  And 
his  notable  success  adds  encouragement.  Indeed,  I  think  that  I 
only  want  a  little  opposition  on  your  part,  or  on  the  part  of  some 
of  my  friends,  to  propose  for  Miss  Wentworth  and  marry  her." 

"  Of  course  you  would.  And  I  don't  mean  to  give  you  the 
motive — though  it  would  rescue  one  more  Yankee  girl,  and  by 
bringing  her  into  good  society  it  might  be  the  making  of  her." 

"  Come,  come,  my  dear  sister,  this  is  all  very  well  for  jesting. 
But  I  tell  you  in  good  earnest,  that  it  is  not  just  or  wise  for  the 
people  of  our  one  country  to  spend  their  time  in  deepening  prej- 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  291 

udices  and  promoting  alienation.  The  times  are  hot  enon^-h 
already.  I  confess  that  I  dread  the  future,  unless  there  can  be 
infused  more  moderation  and  mutual  respect  on  both  sides." 

"Who  cares?  "  said  young  Hillyer.  "Let  times  grow  bad— T 
know  who'll  sufier,  and  who  will  not.  The  Yankees  are  a  mean- 
spirited,  peddling  set.  "We  have  managed  them  for  fifty  years, 
and  we  shall  do  it  still.  I  could  thrash  ten  of  them  without  wink- 
ing.    I  hope  I  may  see  the  day  that  we  shall  try  it  on !  " 

"  WeU,  Hillyer,"  replied  Heywood,  with  a  grave  countenance, 
"it  will  be  a  terrible  day  for  our  country  if  the  North  and  South 
should  go  to  arms.  I  have  no  doubt  of  our  valor,  but  I  have  just 
as  little  of  theirs.  They  are  not  a  people  who  like  fighting.  They 
will  be  slow  to  enter  upon  it.  But,  if  ever  it  is  thrust  upon  them, 
they  will  take  up  war  like  a  trade  and  learn  it  thoroughly.  New 
England  has  had  the  prejudices  of  this  whole  nation  against  her 
for  a  hundred  years,  and  yet  she,  more  than  any  part  of  the  Union, 
has  gone  right  on  prospering  in  every  element  that  makes  States 
strong.  And  I  do  not  believe  that  she  is  likely  to  be  checked  now. 
But  this  talk  is  all  folly.  At  any  rate,  God  grant  that  we  may 
never  put  to  proof  our  respective  opinions." 

With  such  views,  it  will  not  surprise  our  readers  to  learn  that 
Heywood  returned  to  Norwood  for  the  second  season  with  far 
more  eagerness  than  when  he  had  first  sought  it.  His  lively  sister 
sent  him  back  loaded  with  injunctions  against  apostasy  from  the 
true  Southern  spirit.  "  I  will  never,  never  forgive  those  Yankees 
if  they  get  my  brother  away  from  me." 

Every  man,  we  are  often  told,  has  a  mission  in  this  life.  Josiah 
Chandler  happily  found  out  his  mission,  which  many  people  never 
do ;  or  if  they  do,  then  one  cannot  but  marvel  that  they  should  be 
sent  so  far  on  so  poor  an  errand.  Josiah  Chandler's  mission  was 
to  make  and  keep  money.  He  was  of  slender  stature.  A  round 
head,  with  a  face  not  noticeable,  unless,  upon  close  examination, 
you  discovered  a  shrewd  look  about  his  eyes.  He  was  in  no  sense 
a  genius.  He  simply  possessed  consummate  good  judgment  in 
business.  He  had  no  passions.  He  was  always  calm.  He  was 
never  carried  away  by  immoderate  expectations  ;  never  speculated. 
He  was  one  of  the  few  men  whose  success  did  not  unsteady  or  so 
excite  that  he  could  not  take  sure  aim.  For  twenty  years  he  in- 
creased his  gains  surely  and  gradually.    For  ten  years  more  wealth 


292  Norwood;  or, 

came  faster.  Every  thing  he  touched  seemed  to  prosper.  Had 
his  son  lived,  he  would  have  gone  on  accumulating  probably  to  the 
end  of  life.  But  that  death  seemed  to  give  a  shock  to  his  vrhole 
nature.  Why  should  he  go  on  toiling  without  an  end  or  aim  in 
life  except  to  amass  property,  of  which  already  he  had  far  more 
than  he  could  employ?  Mr.  Chandler  had  no  ambition  to  be 
thought  rich.  Indeed  he  was  far  richer  than  any  one  knew.  He 
began  to  wind  up  his  affairs,  to  consummate  such  enterprises  as 
were  on  hand,  and  to  institute  no  others.  He  built  him  a  large 
and  comely  mansion,  and  for  a  year  this  gave  hun  occupation. 
Not  a  nail  was  driven  without  his  inspection.  Every  board  and 
beam,  every  particle  of  paint,  strip  of  lead,  pane  of  glass,  came 
under  his  scrutiny.  Conveniences  of  every  kind  were  multiplied. 
He  never  talked  to  any  one,  not  even  to  his  wife,  of  what  was 
going  on.  Diligent,  shrewd,  watchful,  unostentatious,  thorough, 
and,  above  all,  silent,  was  he.  If  any  thing  went  wrong  no  one 
knew  it.  If  things  succeeded  beyond  his  expectation,  no  one 
knew  that.  He  kept  his  own  counsel.  One  would  have  thought 
that  it  was  in  his  eyes  a  mortal  sin  to  speak  of  his  own  affairs :  not 
a  man  in  town  would  have  been  personally  so  little  missed. 

After  he  moved  into  his  mansion,  every  thing  fell  into  orderly 
arrangements,  seemingly  without  special  effort  from  any  one.  He 
was  mildly  pious.  He  never  knowingly  did  wrong.  He  pre- 
sumed himself  to  be  sinful,  as  he  had  been  assured  that  he  was ; 
and  it  was  a  cardinal  practice  with  him  not  to  contradict.  He  ob- 
served the  Sabbath  day  with  calm  acquiescence.  He  had  united 
with  the  Church  not  from  any  passionate  experience,  but  because 
for  some  unexplained  reason  he  thought  it  the  right  thing  to  do. 
But  his  whole  life  moved  on  as  shadows  creep  over  the  ground 
from  tlie  west  to  the  east,  attracting  no  attention  and  making  no 
noise. 

One  day  Dr.  Wentworth  called  upon  some  business,  and  found 
him  in  his  library.  He  was  astonished  at  the  beauty  of  the  room 
and  at  the  number  of  books.  Then  first  it  was  found  out  that 
Josiah  Chandler  had  a  curious  taste  for  books,  with  a  speciality  of 
love  for  old  books.  IS"©  one  had  ever  heard  him  speak  of  books. 
No  one  had  seen  boxes  unloading  at  his  door.  He  was  the  last 
man  in  town  who  would  have  been  suspected  of  such  a  mania. 
Yet  on  examination  Dr.  Wentworth  found  a  large  collection  of 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  293 

rare  tracts,""  scarce  books— illustrating  American  history.  He  had 
gathered  them  up  in  a  quiet  way.  They  were  bound  in  Boston, 
and  returned  to  Norwood,  and  took  then-  places  in  his  library, 
without  sign  or  hint  to  any  one.  How  much  he  had  read  of  them 
no  one  knew.  It  was  certain  that  he  knew  something  of  every 
volume,  especially  its  bibliographical  history.  That  same  instinct 
of  facts  which  had  given  him  such  success  in  business  was  mani- 
fest in  this  dry  and  silent  amusement  of  his  leisure. 

How  grateful  ought  we  to  be  to  that  distributive  Providence 
which  draws  men  and  women  to  each  other,  not  by  agreements 
and  likenesses,  but  also  by  differences.  Otherwise,  people  coming 
together  by  elective  affinities  would  whirl  away  down  the  path  of 
life,— tall  people  with  tall,  short  people  with  short,  sober  with 
sober,  the  merry  with  the  merry,  the  good  with  the  good,  and  the 
bad  with  the  bad.  And  the  end  would  be  that  the  world's  popu- 
lation would  soon  become  fixed  in  certain  lines,  and  run  into  the 
extremest  exaggerations.  But,  now,  a  tall  man  snatches  up  a  dar- 
ling little  short  creature  for  his  wife.  He  has  had  tallness  enough, 
and  wants  variety.  All  the  town  is  aghast  when  it  learns  that 
some  Amanda  Sexton,  the  finest  woman  of  the  place,  beautiful  as 
a  rose,  has  surrendered  herself  to  some  Luther  Walpole,  whose 
face  is  so  homely  as  to  make  one  almost  doubt  the  benevolence  of 
Providence.  And  so  a  devout  woman  is  joined  to  a  merry,  thought- 
less wretch  ;  and  in  like  manner  a  grave  and  reverend  man  is  led 
about  by  some  rosy,  sprightly  creature,  who  foams  and  sparkles 
on  his  surface,  as  the  beautiful  water-crests  do  upon  deep  and  sol- 
emn waves. 

In  only  one  thing  was  his  wife  like  unto  Josiah  Chandler. 
Neither  of  them  had  any  illusions.  He  saw  things  in  their  most 
absolute  literalness ;  she  saw  people,  and  their  action,  without 
charitable  or  malign  mists,  but  in  a  merciless  truthfulness.  And 
though  a  wise  woman,  yet  she  spoke  out  with  a  literal  truthfulness 
which  frequently  astonished  men,  accustomed  to  the  indirections, 
the  disguises,  and  the  deceptions  of  society.  She  was  a  large, 
portly  woman,  of  a  serene,  but  fine  and  energetic  countenance. 
She  was  in  every  way  superior  to  her  husband  except  in  the  smgu- 
lar  talent  for  making  and  administering  wealth.  She  could  con- 
verse ;  he  could  not.  She  had  tastes  refined  by  literature  and 
good  society  ;  he  was  one  of  those  men  that  you  would  forget  tc 


294  Norwood ;  or, 

notice,  aud,  whether  he  was  cultivated,  really  you  forgot  to  in* 
quire ! 

She  studied  with  profound  sympathy  the  writings  of  Jonathan 
Edwards  and  Madam  Guion  ;  he  read  Scott's  Commentaries  and 
Barnes's  Notes  on  the  Gospels.  Every  morning,  at  family  prayers, 
he  read  five  or  six  verses  of  Scripture  from  Scott's  Bible,  and  then 
came  rivers  of  interpretations,  and  notes,  and  improvements  which 
overflowed  and  submerged  the  Scripture  texts,  and  left  them  lying 
like  pond-lilies  in  a  broad  lake — a  few  sOver  cups  exquisitely 
floating  on  a  wUderness  of  waters !  Yet,  patient  as  he  was,  he 
seldom  could  read  at  a  sitting  the  whole  of  those  prelections  by 
which  Scott  converted  the  Bible  into  an  exceeding  great  army  of 
unpre ached  sermons.  After  he  had  read  to  the  limit  of  time,  he 
would  break  off  with  a  quiet  "  and  so  forth,  and  so  forth,  with 
much  more  to  the  same  purpose." 

Does  any  one  believe  that  she  loved  him  ?  Is  it  possible  that 
one  in  every  range  of  faculty  so  much  larger  and  richer,  could  fail 
to  perceive  the  unmatched  condition  in  which  she  lived  ?  Did  she 
marry  for  wealth  ?  She  seemed  to  care  little  for  it,  except  as  a 
means  of  kindness.  Did  she  in  youth  have  more  imagination  than 
now,  and  suffer  herself  to  see  him  through  iridescent  mists  of  love 
awakened  by  fancy  ?  And  having  awakened  to  the  literal  reality, 
did  pride  lead  her  ever  after  to  cover  the  mistake  by  an  appear- 
ance of  affection  ?  If  she  was  playing  a  part,  it  was  superbly  done. 
No  man,  however  sharply  he  might  discriminate,  could  detect  the 
slightest  signs  of  affected  regard.  On  the  contrary,  there  were  aU 
the  tokens  of  a  real,  enduring  affection. 

Agate  Bissell  had  been  skeptical,  but  even  she  yielded : 

"  It's  no  nse.  You  may  as  well  give  it  up.  That  woman  does 
love  that  man,  what  there  is  of  him,  and  it's  the  Lord's  wonder!  " 

Hey  wood  had  been  brought  up  in  an  atmosphere  of  hospitality. 
There  was  a  certain  largeness  in  the  home-life  of  his  father's  house. 
There  was  always  more  or  less  of  company.  Every  one  was  free 
to  come  and  go  according  to  his  own  good  pleasure.  There  were 
horses  in  the  stable  for  such  as  would  ride ;  guns  and  rods  for 
luch  as  loved  the  fleld  and  the  stream.  Seldom  was  there  a  day 
when  the  family  was  at  home  when  the  young  people  could  not 
find  enough  companions  for  all  summer  sports  and  amusements. 
Enjoyment  was  not  casual  and  special.     It  was  the  ruling  element. 


Village  Life  in  New  En(jland.  295 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  change  to  Norwood  habits  was 
great,  and  that  in  his  aunt's  mansion  the  contrast  was  still  more 
violent.     All  was  sedate  ;  all  was  peaceful,  regular,  silent. 

But  after  a  while  he  began  to  lose  that  latent  repugnance  which 
at  first  barred  familiarity.  As  soon  as  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
not  to  compare  his  aunt's  household  with  his  mother's,  but  to  con- 
sider it  as  a  new  species  to  be  studied  by  itself,  he  began  to  find 
points  of  curiosity  and  of  attraction.  He  recognized,  also,  a  dis- 
tinct influence  which  his  aunt  exerted  upon  him,  and  he  could  not 
help  admiring  both  the  shrewdness  and  solidity  of  her  judgments 
upon  men  and  things  in  society. 

It  was  novel  to  Heywood  to  find  a  woman  of  strong  sense,  of 
clear  discernment,  who  always  spoke  the  truth,  and  who  loved  to 
have  the  truth  spoken  to  her.  This  last  trait  was  remarkable. 
She  refused  to  be  praised  in  the  slightest  degree  beyond  what  she 
esteemed  fair.  But  a  merited  compliment  she  accepted  with  mani- 
fest pleasure.  Not  remarkable  for  insight  and  analysis  of  the 
subtle  elements  of  character,  she  saw  those  broad  effects  which  are 
developed  in  action  with  accuracy,  and  judged  them  impartially. 
Heywood  soon  found  in  his  aunt  a  friend  whom  he  could  trust  im- 
plicitly, and  whose  judgment  was  invaluable  ;  and  every  month  of 
his  stay  made  absence  from  his  home  easier  to  bear. 

The  appearance  in  Norwood  society  for  a  second  season  of  this 
brilliant  young  Southerner  could  not  fail  to  create  an  interest  in 
all  concerned,  and  that  was  not  a  small  number.  There  was  no 
house  at  which  he  would  not  have  been  welcome.  The  young 
Deople  deemed  his  presence  at  any  gathering  a  sure  presage  of  a 
brilliant  time.  All  admitted  that  Norwood  had  never  seen,  and 
would 'not  soon  again  see,  three  such  glorious  fellows  as  Frank 
Esel,  Tom  Heywood  and  Barton  Cathcart. 

Frank  Esel  had  maintained  his  intimacy  at  Dr.  "Wentworth's. 
His  admiration  had  not  abated.  In  spite  of  all  his  philosophy,  he 
had  found  himself  more  and  more  carried  forward  toward  that  in- 
toxication of  feeling  where  one  ceases  to  be  the  master  of  himself 
and  the  judgment  loses  control,  and  every  object  is  seen  in  the 
color  of  passionate  love.  This  growing  feeling  could  not  fail  to  be 
observed  by  Rose.  It  troubled  her.  So  much  was  there  in  Frank 
Esel  to  admire,  so  sound  was  his  moral  nature,  his  heart  was  so 
good,  and  his  tastes  so  refined,  that  Rose  Wentworth  placed  a  sin- 


296  Norwood ;  or, 

cere  value  upon  his  friendship.  Few  women  can  decline  a  prof- 
fered love  without  wounding  both  pride  and  vanity.  ISTot  many 
men  are  noble  enough  to  accept  friendship  when  their  love  has 
been  refused.  Pride  and  vanity,  too  deeply  wounded  by  defeat, 
often  change  to  anger,  and  men  seek  to  undervalue  what  they  have 
failed  to  secure. 

Eeturning  home  with  Miss  Wentworth  from  an  afternoon's 
gathering  in  the  village,  Frank  Esel  thought  that  she  had  never 
seemed  so  beautiful  as  on  this  day.  It  chanced  that  the  doctor 
and  Mrs.  Wentworth  had  gone  out  to  make  some  evening  call. 
The  young  folks  were  in  the  other  part  of  the  house,  ^nd  Kose 
sat  in  her  father's  library.  There  rose  in  Frank's  heart  an  im- 
pulse, as  often  before,  but  which  now  seemed  to  rise  and  impel  him 
in  spite  of  every  resistance  which  he  could  make.  All  the  prudent 
resolves  he  had  formed  were  gone,  and  seemed  like  faint  memories, 
pale  and  afar  off.  He  began  to  speak,  and  started  at  his  own 
voice.  His  color  came  and  vanished.  And  so  much  was  he  agi- 
tated that  Rose  perceived  it,  nor  was  the  meaning  unknown  to  her. 

How  much  one  may  think  in  the  duration  of  a  flash !  Under 
low  excitements  the  mind  finds  its  way  from  thought  to  thought 
gradually.  But  when  the  brain  is  fired,  whole  fields  of  thought 
spring  up  before  the  mind  like  pictures,  and  all  progression  of  view 
seems  to  give  place  to  instantaneousness  of  sight. 

In  one  and  the  same  instant  Rose  saw  and  determined  all  these 
things,  viz. :  that  a  crisis  had  come  in  Frank  Esel's  feelings,  that 
the  tide  was  too  strong  to  be  stayed  or  turned  aside,  that  should 
he  be  suffered  to  pour  out  all  his  heart,  he  would,  in  the  necessary 
disappointment  which  must  befall  him,  not  only  greatly  suffer  in 
pride,  but  lose  by  rebound  a  position  of  friendship  full  of  pleasure 
to  both  of  them,  that  it  was  far  better  that  she  should  herself  take 
the  initiative,  and,  meeting  his  rising  feeling,  forestall  it.  Her  pur- 
pose was  taken  instantly ;  and  when  Frank,  suddenly  rising,  came 
toward  her,  with  glowing  cheek  and  an  eye  almost  wild,  she  rose 
to  meet  him,  and,  extending  her  hand  to  his,  she  said,  with  a  voice 
in  which  command  and  kindness  were  blended : 

"  My  dear  cousin  Frank,  come  and  sit  down  by  me  on  the  sofa, 
until  I  say  what  I  am  sure  you  will  forgive  me  for  saying !  Our 
acquaintance  has  been  a  joy  to  me.  I  have  learned  much  from 
you,  and  much  more  I  hope  to  learn.     I  value  your  friendship,  and 


Village  Life  in  Neio  Enijland,  297 

aik  for  it.  Frank,  I  am  grateful  and  proud  of  your  good  and  kind 
tbouglits  of  me.  It  would  be  a  grief  all  my  life  if  any  darkness 
ehould  come  between  us.  ITo,  my  dear  cousin,  do  not  speak — I 
know  wbat  you  would  say.  I  know  tbat  you  would  be  sorry  if 
you  said  it,  and  I  should  be  too ;  for,  Frank,  better  friends  than 
we  are  there  could  not  be,  but  more  than  friendship  is  impossible." 

Then  Rose's  voice  trembled,  and  her  face  was  suffused  with 
blushes  as,  with  great  sensibility,  she  turned  full  upon  Esel,  and 
added : 

"  Forgive  me,  Frank,  for  my  boldness,  and  accept  it  as  the  token 
of  my  friendship,  that  I  say,  before  you  have  even  spoken  of  love 
to  me,  that  you  must  not  speak  of  it !  Do  not  think  ill  of  me,  Frank, 
that  I  decline  what  has  not  been  offered.  I  would  have  had  it 
otherwise.  And  now  I  would  save  you"  from  uttering  a  word  which, 
in  a  few  hours,  you  would  be  grieved  that  you  had  said.  For,  it 
must  not  be.  iTothing  is  more  certain,  Frank,  absolutely  certain, 
than  that  you  must  rest  contented  with  friendship.  I  must  not 
detain  you — I  hear  voices — father  is  returning.  Come  hither  to- 
morrow night,  and  be  your  own  noble  self,  and  my  friend.  Pardon 
the  pain — I  am  sure  that  you  will  believe  it  kindness." 

"  One  word,  if  I  may— one  word,  Miss  Wentworth " 

"  MuB  Wentworth !  Then  you  are  offended  ?  " 

"No,  cousin— cousin  Rose!  I  am  only  bewildered!  May  I 
ask  ?— no,  I  will  not  ask  the  question !— Good  night !  " 

As  he  passed  out  of  the  door  he  met  Dr.  Went  worth  and  his 
wife  ;  but  Frank  seemed  indeed,  as  he  had  said,  like  one  bewildered. 
He  was  going  on  without  salutation,  till  the  doctor  spoke : 

"  Good-evening,  Mr.  Esel.  Whither  away  so  fast  ?— the  evening 
is  not  yet  spent !  " 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir ;— I  mean  good  night,  sir;— I  quite  forgot." 

"Why,  what  is  all  this?"  said  Dr.  Wentworth  to  his  wife. 
"  What  has  happened  to  Esel  ?   He  talks  as  if  he  had  been  drinking." 

His  wife  with  woman's  wit  suspected  the  state  of  the  case,  and 
only  replied : 

"  Oh,  it's  some  little  dispute,  I  dare  say.  But  if  nothing  is  said 
to  us,  we  had  better  not  inquire." 

Leaving  th©  door-yard,  Esel  turned  from  mere  habit  in  the 
direction  of  his  rooms.  But  so  absorbed  was  he  in  thought  that 
he  walked  slowly  past  his  boarding-house, — far  along  the  street,— 


298  Norwood  ;   OVy 

under  the  darkness  of  the  great  elms, — sometimes  pausing, — once 
or  twice  crossing  the  street  without  knowing  it.  The  alternation 
between  feeling  and  thought  in  a  mind  painfully  stirred  as  Esel's 
was  cannot  be  set  down  in  any  words.  Yet,  leaving  out  the  hun- 
dred flushes  of  shame,  the  sharp  pangs  of  regret,  the  reaction  of 
generous  feelings — we  may  give  a  faint  notion  of  his  state. 

"And  so  it  is  ended: — (a  deep  sigh.)  Then  it  -vtas  not  to 
entice  me  that  she  spoke.  There  was  no  need  of  it.  Eose  could  not 
do  it  either.  I've  brought  it  on  myself — (a  blush  stole  over  his 
face,  growing  hotter  and  hotter.)  All  my  resolutions  and  my  better 
judgment  thrown  aside, — and  the  sweetness  of  infatuated  feeling 
was  followed ! — (then  speaking  aloud) — and  so  plainly  did  I  show 
it  that  she  saw  it,  and  knew  what  I  was  going  to  say,  and  antici- 
pated me, — foiled! — outwitted! — fooled!  (His  voice  sounding  in 
the  silence  seemed  to  annoy  him,  and  he  became  silent.)  Friend- 
ship ? — it's  easy  to  convert  friendship  into  love.  I've  found  that 
out ;  but,  not  so  easy  to  put  love  back  into  friendship.  I  see,  now — 
that  brilliant  Southerner.  I  wish  I  had  asked  what  was  on  my 
tongue's  end — Is  there  any  other  one  whom  you  love?  No,  I  had 
no  business  to  do  it.  To-morrow  I  will  go  home.  Fool,  to  have 
ever  gone  away.  No,  I  am  not  a  fool.  I  should  have  been  less 
than  a  man  if  I  had  not  loved  her.  I  am  not  ashamed  of  it.  I  am 
not  Ts'orthy  of  her.  God  saw  it.  But  I  would  have  given  my 
whole  life  to  becoming  worthy  of  her.  I  never  can  see  her  again — 
never — never.  I  could  not  look  upon  her  and  be  silent.  Now  that 
she  knows  my  secret,  how  can  I  look  into  her  eyes  without  a 
1)urning  tell-tale  face  ;  and  that  will  be  a  renewing  of  the  suit. 
Oh,  I  did  not  know  how  far  I  had  gone.  This  has  sucked  up  my 
very  life." 

By  this  time  Esel  had  strayed  out  of  the  village,  and  was  more 
than  half  a  mile  beyond  on  the  road  towards  Cathcart's.  He  sat 
down  upon  a  large  white  rock  as  if  he  were  looking  at  a  landscape, 
though  the  darkness  and  silence  were  remarkable. 

The  heaven  was  full  of  concealed  clouds.  Now  and  then  a  dis- 
tant flash  of  lightning  revealed  them,  and  long  ranges  of  "  thunder 
heads  "  shone  brilliantly  out,  but  in  a  second  sank  back  into  dark- 
ness. Low  rolls  of  heavy  thunder  sounded  the  coming  on  of  a 
storm.  A  fitful  wind  swept  through  the  near  woods  with  a  sound 
like  rushing  waters.    In  a  moment  it  was  gone ;  not  a  leaf  moved, 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  299 

not  a  sound  was  uttered.  An  unweaned  calf  bleated  from  the  pas- 
ture ;  a  short  bark  from  a  distant  dog,  instantly  broken  off,  gave 
to  the  silence  a  profounder  iufluence.  Again  and  again  the  cloud 
ridges  and  mountains  shone  out  and  receded  into  darkness.  Esel 
sat  as  if  watching  this  grandest  phenomenon  of  summer,  the  ad- 
vance through  the  heavens  of  a  great  storm.  But  he  saw  nothing, 
or  was,  at  least  unconscious  of  seeing  any  thing.  The  flashes  grew 
more  frequent,  the  thunder  advanced  and  rolled  with  deeper 
cadence ;  large  drops  of  rain,  slung  from  the  clouds,  smote  the 
earth — a  few  only,  and  they  suddenly  ceased.  A  whirl  of  wind 
rolled  up  the  the  dust  along  the  road,  bent  the  trees  in  its  course, 
and  swayed  the  bushes  almost  to  the  ground,  and  then  fled  away 
and  left  a  dead  calm  behind.  Soon  a  fine  sound  filled  the  air  ;  it 
was  the  rain  descending  in  good  earnest,  and  sounding  upon  a  mil- 
lion leaves.  It  came  with  a  rush  upon  Esel,  and  awoke  him  to  some 
consciousness. 

He  looked  up  in  surprise  as  if  awakened  from  sleep.  He  did 
not  know  where  he  was.  Fortunately  he  took  the  right  direction, 
and  now  running,  and  then  walking,  to  catch  his  breath,  he  regained 
the  village,  drenched  to  the  skin.  The  storm  accompanied  him  all 
the  way.  It  thundered  behind  him,  above  him,  all  around  him. 
Torrents  poured  down,  and  the  roads  ran  like  rivers. 

The  storm  had,  at  least,  restored  him  to  some  self-possession, 
but  not  to  prudence.  Casting  off  a  part  of  his  clothes,  and  throwing 
a  cloak  loosely  about  him,  Frank  Esel  sat  down  by  the  open  window. 

The  storm  had  wasted  its  substance,  or  rather  appeared  to  have 
driven  forward  like  an  advancing  army,  whose  artillery  was  still 
sounding  in  the  far  front,  while  cloud-stragglers  swarmed  in  the 
rear. 

There  was  something  in  this  war  of  the  elements  that  suited 
Esel's  disturbed  feelings  ;  yet  his  mind  fell  off  from  the  scene  before 
him  and  wandered  back  to  his  childhood.  Tears  came  at  the 
thought  of  his  mother.  He  strove  to  bring  together  the  discon- 
nected scenes  of  his  childhood  that  rose  up  before  him,  and  to  feel 
that  he  was  that  very  one ;  for  his  very  identity  seemed  slipping 
from  him,  and  he  could  hardly  make  himself  feel  that  he  was  that 
person  whom  he  remembered  in  so  many  gay  and  happy  experiences. 
It  was  past  midnight.  A  chill  crept  over  him,  and  he  gathered  his 
cloak  closer  about  him.    But  he  was  no  warmer.     He  shut  the 


300  Norwood ;  or, 

window  and  retired  to  his  bed  ;  but  the  sleep  he  sought  fled  fron 
him. 

At  length,  toward  morning,  he  fell  into  an  uneasy  slumber,  and 
dreamed  all  manner  of  dreams.  All  the  day  following  he  was  lan- 
guid and  depressed.  He  knew  not  what  ailed  him.  He  started  on 
looking  in  the  glass  to  see  the  haggardness  of  his  own  face.  To- 
ward evening,  remembering  Rose  TVentworth's  wish,  he  determined 
to  go  to  her ;  but  a  strange  apathy  seemed  to  hang  upon  him.  He 
remembered  the  different  feelings  of  yesterday  as  he  trod  the  same 
path,  but  remembered  them  without  emotion.  As  he  entered  Dr. 
Wentworth's  yard.  Rose  saw  him  from  the  window,  and  greeted 
him  at  the  door. 

"  Frank,  this  is  good  and  noble.  I  knew  that  I  did  not  misjudge 
you But  what  ails  you,  Frank  ?     How  ghastly  you  are  !  " 

For  a  moment  a  pang  of  anguish  pierced  Rose's  heart.  She 
could  hardly  imagine  that  a  disappointment  could,  in  a  few  hours, 
work  such  a  change  !    Esel  made  haste  to  say  : 

"It  is  nothing.  I  was  imprudent  last  night.  I  was  caught 
in  the  storm  and  thoroughly  wet.  I  must  have  taken  a  severe 
chill,  for  I  have  not  felt  well  since.  But  it  will  pass  with  a  good 
sleep." 

Dr.  "Wentworth,  overhearing  a  word,  came  from  his  library. 

"  What,  Esel,  did  you  say  you  were  not  well  ?  "  He  approached 
and  examined  him.  "Esel,  you  should  return  to  your  room;  I 
will  send  you  some  remedies.  It  may  be  but  a  cold;  it  may  come 
to  something  more.*' 

The  next  day  the  doctor  found  him  in  a  high  fever,  and  his 
mind  confused  and  wandering.  His  mother  was  sent  for.  For 
many  weeks  he  lay  helpless.  At  length  the  fever  left  him.  It  was 
several  weeks  yet  before  he  could  be  moved ;  and  when  he  could 
bear  the  journey,  he  returned  to  his  home.  The  love  that  he  had 
cherished  for  Rose  was  no.  longer  a  thing  of  this  world.  It  had 
risen  into  the  place  of  devout  thoughts.  It  was  like  a  remembered 
vision  of  another  world,  not  lawful  to  be  uttered. 

One  chamber  of  his  soul  was  set  apart,  consecrated,  and  there 
his  thoughts,  as  to  a  shrine,  came  reverently. 

As  his  health  returned,  Frank  Esel  betook  himself  to  his  pro- 
fession with  even  a  deeper  feeling  than  ever.  He  had  become  a 
man.     For  he  had  become  a  disciple  of  Suffering,  the  only  school- 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  301 

master  who  can  bring  men  to  their  true  manhood.  He  had  passed 
through  his  youth-time  with  abounding  joy.  Then  came  the  real 
awakening  of  his  intellect,  where  new  flights  seemed  like  inspira- 
tions, and  cast  a  shadow  npon  all  that  went  before.  Ki  last  came 
Suffering!  Not  that  play  of  care  or  vexation,  which  only  creases 
the  souFs  surface  as  a  puff  of  wind  wrinkles  the  waters,  but  sorrow 
which  moves  the  foundations,  and  so  deepens  one's  nature.  No 
one  has  suffered  enough  until  he  is  patient  of  suffering.  ''Made 
perfect  through  suffering  !  "  Men  stamped  with  this  brand  have 
God's  mark  on  them. 

But  one  should  not  imagine  Esel  as  a  (liscouraged  or  a  broken 
man.  He  was  never  so  strong  as  now.  He  had  in  early  years  in- 
sensibly been  drawn  under  the  influence  of  that  vicious  school  of 
self-contemplatists  whose  victims  revolve  around  themselves  all 
their  lives,  watching  the  development  of  their  own  genius  and  by 
self-culture  attaining  to  self-consciousness.  Esel's  natural  gener- 
osity had  restrained  him  from  that  besotted  conceit  which  blights 
so  many.  But  he  had  not  learned  to  derive  his  pleasure  from  the 
end  sought,  so  much  as  from  the  conscious  exercise  of  those  facul- 
ties by  which  he  sought  it.  His  sickness  and  previous  experiences 
left  upon  his  mind  a  deep  impression,  that  in  so  far  as  he  himself 
was  concerned,  life  was  ended.  Now,  whatever  power  he  pos- 
sessed was  to  be  spent  for  others.  All  his  ambitions  now  assumed 
the  form  of  kindnesses.  Gradually  he  found  his  former  enterprise 
developing  itself  under  new  motives.  With  less  exhilaration  than 
formerly,  he  found  far  more  peace.  He  seriously  questioned 
whether  he  should  not  enter  upon  the  service  of  the  church,  and 
while  in  that  mood  he  wrote  to  Dr.  Wentworth,  a  part  of  whose 
reply  we  will  print : 

*  *  *  *  "  If  you  had  been  living  out  of  the  line  of  action 
of  j^ur  strongest  faculties,  if  deep  religious  feeling  had  developed 
powers  which  had  been  restrained  or  overlaid  by  selfish  plans, 
there  might  be  good  reason  for  a  change  of  profession.  But  you 
were  born  to  be  an  artist.  All  your  faculties  and  feelings  har- 
monize in  the  pursuits  of  art.  Why  should  you  change  ?  You  speak 
of  self-denial  as  necessary.  Do  not  search  for  it.  Whenever  a 
lower  course,  a  less  worthy  feeling,  contest  better  ones,  deny 
them.  Do  not  seek  pain  for  its  own  sake.  Suffering  is  like  many 
chemical  agents,  wholesome  when  combined  by  nature  in  organic 


302  Norwood ;  or, 

forms  of  fruit  or  grain,  but  separated  and  employed  alone,  super- 
stimulating  and  injurious. 

"  What  would  you  gain  ?  You  can  seek  the  moral  benefit  of 
society  by  your  art,  as  really  as  by  sermons,  and  probably  with 
far  greater  success.  Have  you  considered  in  how  many  ways  your 
peculiar  genius  can  be  applied  to  the  refinement  and  happiness  of 
your  fellow-men  ?  Let  me  state  simple  cases  which  I  have  often 
imagined.  A  sweet  landscape,  painted  by  one  who  saw  a  soul  in 
nature,  and  not  merely  forms,  hanging  in  a  sick-room  for  long 
months,  cheers  the  declining  invalid  and  becomes  a  minister  of 
consolation.  "When  the  spirit  is  liberated,  thereafter,  to  the  whole 
household,  that  picture  has  a  sacred  association.  It  becomes  a  family 
talisman.  When  it  passes  on  into  another  generation,  it  renews 
its  labor  of  love, — proving  that  the  spirit  of  beauty  may  become 
a  spirit  of  mercy.  I  can  easily  imagine  a  simple  landscape  wrought 
out  in  the  spirit  of  love  by  a  skilful  hand,  which  shall  difiuse  more 
happiness  than  most  men  do  in  a  whole  life-time. 

"  But  your  profession  is,  Christianly  considered,  the  education 
of  the  community  by  the  ministration  of  Beauty.  Painting  is  only 
one  way  of  doing  this.  Why  should  there  not  be  drawing- classes 
among  the  poor  as  well  as  sewing-classes^reading-classes,  singing- 
classes,  etc.  ?  Men  collect  funds  to  put  books  gratuituously  in  the 
dwellings  of  the  poor, — why  should  not  some  Christian  artist 
spend  a  portion  of  his  time  in  ministering  beauty  to  households  ot 
the  worthy  poor  ? 

"  Even  if  one  had  no  skill  in  painting,  the  ministry  of  beauty 
does  not  depend  upon  manual  skill.  One  might  gather  flowers  day 
by  day,  from  the  fields  to  cheer  the  poor  and  crippled ;  to  stand  in 
schools ;  or,  witb  faint  symbolic  power,  to  bring  into  gaunt  churches 
some  wealth  and  grace  of  natural  beauty.  What  if  one  were  to 
visit  the  poor-house  in  each  town,  and  minister, — not  alone  to*  the 
social  feelings,  to  the  physical  wants, — but  to  the  taste  and  sym- 
pathy of  its  inmates,  with  gifts  of  beauty  ? 

"  I  have  often  marvelled  that,  in  a- time  of  such  taste  and  liber- 
ality, so  little  should  be  done  with  trees.  Kew  England  might  be 
made  a  magnificent  park,  witb  but  a  slight  expense,  if  only  one 
dedicated  himself  to  doing  good  through  the  love  of  beauty.  Every 
great  road,  every  bye-road,  connecting  towns  and  villages,  or  neigh- 
borhoods, if  concert  were  secured,  might  not  only  be  judiciously 


Villa(je  Life  in  New  England.  30s 

planted,  but,  by  a  little  study  and  care  in  the  selection,  all  the  fine 
trees  might  in  time  be  employed,  one  road  being  lined  with  oaks, 
another  with  elms,  another  Avith  pines  or  spruces,  another  with 
maples,  another  with  purple  beeches,  and  so  on,  until  every  county 
would  become  an  arboretum.  Such  is  the  spirit  of  emulation  that, 
if  a  single  town  should  perfect  this  work,  other  towns  would  catch 
the  inspiration,  and  the  work  would  go  on  with  energy  until  an 
unclothed  road  would  become  a  reproach.  All  this  is  a  part  of  the 
work  of  true  benevolence.  If  you  would  teach  within  the  church, 
you  must  seek  ordination  at  the  hands  of  man.  But  whose  heart 
soever  God  has  touched  with  a  spirit  of  benevolence  is  ordained 
to  go  forth  into  society  and  preach  the  gospel  to  every  creature, 
each  man  speaking  in  the  language  of  his  o"\vn  business!  "  *  *  * 
Esel  had  never  been  so  busy  as  now,  and  was  never  so  cheerful. 
Yet  he  carried  in  his  heart  a  feeling  that  never  died.  There  was 
no  hope  in  it,  but  a  gentle  patience.  It  burned  on  in  solitude,  like 
a  sacred  lamp,  which  hermit  hands  trim  and  feed  in  some  recluse's 
cell  or  cave  far  away  from  the  fever  of  the  world. 


14 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

C  O  NTE  A  ST  S. 

If  people  are  attracted  by  their  opposites,  as  some  hold,  there 
was  every  reason  to  suspect  that  a  strong  sympathy  would  draw 
Heywood  and  Cathcart  together ;  for  they  represented  in  a  striking 
manner  contrasting  elements.  Heywood's  face  was  fine,  even 
beautiful.  Blue  eyes,  chestnut  hair,  inclining  to  curl,  fine  com- 
plexion, and  fresh  color, — need  it  be  said  that  his  was  a  sanguine 
temperament  ?  Cathcart's,  striking  in  appearance  rather  by  expres- 
sion than  by  positive  beauty  of  features,  dark  and  piercing  eyes, 
features  framed  both  for  strength  and  refinement,  black  hair; — 
his  temperament,  too,  could  not  be  mistaken.  Heywood's  face 
was  genial,  and  when  excited  radiant.  His  whole  soul  shono 
through  it.  Excitement  shot  fire  through  every  feature  of  Cath- 
cart's face ;  but  every  one  felt  that  more  lay  behind  than  was  ex- 
pressed. There  was  a  sense  of  repressed  feeling  and  reserved 
enthusiasm.  Heywood  would  flame  soonest,  Cathcart  would  burn 
the  longest. 

They  were  contrasted  in  mental  qualities.  Barton  Cathcart's 
mind  was  reflective,  Tom  Heywood's  perceptive.  Both  were  rea- 
soners;  but  Heywood  loved  physical  facts,  and  reasoned  upon 
them.  Cathcart  reasoned  more  deeply  upon  relations  of  facts,  and 
upon  more  subtle  philosophies.  As  was  natural,  Heywood  loved 
to  reason  upon  the  actions  of  men,  the  events  of  society.  Cathcart 
inclined  to  the  study  of  the  causes  of  events,  the  nature  of  the 
mind,  and  the  structure  of  society. 

It  was  natural  for  Heywood  to  utter,  and  to  long  to  utter,  what- 
ever he  had  wrought  out  in  thinking,  and  he  left  the  impression 
that  in  his  frankness  he  had  expressed  all  that  he  had  thought. 

On  the  other  hand,  Barton  Cathcart,  without  seeming  reserved, 
left  the  impression  that  he  oftered  you  but  a  sheaf  from  a  field,  and 
that  the  reserved  treasure  far  surpassed  that  revealed. 

They  were  more  nearly  alike  in  disposition,  but  as  contrasted 
as  possible  in  the  forms  which  disposition  took  on.  Heywood's 
conscience  developed  in  the  form  of  Honor.     Cathcart's  moral 


Village  Life  in  New  Enfjland.  305 

sense  had  been  trained  as  a  deep,  reflective,  religious  feeling, 
rather  than  as  a  social  element. 

Heywood  did  right,  as  in  the  sight  of  men  ;  Cathcart  as  in  the 
sight  of  God.  Both  >^ere  kind,  with  great  disinterestedness  ;  but 
in  the  Southerner  it  was  demonstrative  and  generous.  Less  demon- 
strative in  the  Northerner,  perhaps  less  prompt,  and  far  less  attrac- 
tive, it  endured  longer  and  achieved  more.  In  the  one  it  was  a 
blossom,  in  the  other  a  fruit. 

Heywood  had  been  reared  in  affluence,  and  had  never  learned 
to  work,  nor  to  have  sympathy  with  those  who  did.  Barton  Cath- 
cart had  been  inured  from  childhood  to  toil,  and  was  drawn  by 
vital  sympathy  to  all  who  labored.  The  Virginian  was  born  to 
command.  He  had  looked  down  upon  men  from  the  necessity  of 
his  social  position,  there  being  but  two  classes  in  the  society  in 
which  he  was  bred — that  class  in  which  men  must  work,  and  that 
in  which  they  must  not.  The  New  Englander  had  been  reared  in 
a  true  democracy,  in  which  classes  represented  the  relative  forces 
of  the  actors,  into  which  and  out  of  which  men,  passed  at  their 
pleasure,  and  in  which  there  were  few  leaders  and  no  aristocracy, 
except  that  which  was  conferred  by  the  consent  of  all. 

In  religion  they  were  equally  contrasted.  Eeared  an  Episco- 
palian, Heywood  regarded  religious  truths  as  something  settled  be- 
yond all  questioning— worked  out  and  fixed  as  definitely  as  are  the 
elements  of  mathematics.  He  had  never  searched  the  grounds  of 
truth.  The  church  he  believed  to  have  been  shaped  and  patterned 
by  God  as  much  as  the  natural  world  was.  He  would  as  soon  have 
thought  of  discussing  the  authenticity  of  heat,  or  the  propriety  of 
frost,  as  of  the  services  of  the  church.  Ordination  was  a  natural 
law — the  ministry  a  part  of  the  constitution  of  the  world. 

Barton  Cathcart  had  been  reared  even  more  earnestly  to  believe 
in  revealed  religion.  But,  from  his  childhood,  an  appeal  had  been 
made  to  his  reason.  Nothing  marks  so  strikingly  the  faith  of  New 
England  in  the  truth  of  her  religious  systems  as  the  boTdness  with 
which  she  has  always  challenged  for  them  the  utmost  scrutiny  of 
Reason.  Cathcart,  from  an  early  period,  felt  himself  drawn  into  deep 
thought.  He  could  not  rest  with  traditional  knowledge  and  heredi- 
tary faith.  He  pursued  inquiries  into  the  nature  of  the  human  mind, 
— whose  nature  will  in  the  end  determine  all  formulas,  as  its  philoso- 
phy has  in  every  age  fashioned  all  theologies.     He  analyzed  the  doc- 


306  Norwood;  or, 

trines  of  the  church,  and  disputed  many  of  them.  Led  on  by  an 
indomitable  desire  of  knowing  the  very  truth,  he  explored  the  Bible 
for  himself  with  indefatigable  zeal.  Finding  the  extreme  reaction- 
ary Protestant  doctrine,  that  the  Bible  was  the  sole  fountain  of 
religious  truth,  could  not  be  true,  he  began  to  question  the  grounds 
of  inspiration ;  then  the  reality  of  the  truths  revealed ;  what  truth 
was  only  relative  to  a  process,  a  condition,  and  an  age,  and  what 
was  absolute — alike  true  to  every  people  in  every  age,  and  in  all 
conditions  of  their  development  and  progress. 

■  Such  a  career  of  thought  would  have  been  as  impossible  to  the 
brilliant  Virginian  as  the  act  of  flying.  He  believed  that  the  church 
categories  of  truth  were  so  absolutely  true,  that  it  was  audacious 
even  to  question  them.  Investigation  he  deemed  to  consist  in 
assuming  these,  and  simply  seeing  how  far  one  might  go  consist- 
ently with  them. 

Is"ot  only  did  Heywood  rest  unquestioningly  upon  the  religion 
and  church  of  his  fathers,  but  he  could  not  understand  philosophical 
inquisitiveness  in  religious  matters  in  any  other  light  than  as  an 
immorality.  It  was  a  sign  not  of  intellectual  life,  but  of  moral 
death.  He  shrunk  with  something  akin  to  disgust  from  that 
free  spirit  of  inquiry  and-  discussion  which  he  found  in  Xew 
England. 

Alike  in  contrast  were  these  young  men  in  their  views  of  life. 
Barton  Cathcart's  freedom  in  searching  the  foundations  of  religious 
truth  did  not  seem  half  so  strange  to  Heywood,  as  to  Cathcart 
seemed  Heywood's  utter  levity  regarding  human  life  and  society. 
From  his  childhood  Barton  had  looked  with  the  deepest  solem- 
nity upon  a  man's  duty  to  his  fellows.  Society  did  not  seem  to  him, 
as  it  nearly  did  to  Heywood,  a  contrivance  for  his  pleasure  and 
aggrandizement.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  oppressed  with  a  sense 
of  duty  to  society,  which  tasked  him,  and,  after  his  utmost  industry, 
stiU  chastised  him  for  negligence. 

Barton  could  not  imagine  how  Heywood  could  look  with  such 
a  frivolous  eye  upon  human  society,  and  yet  be  so  conscientious — 
almost  superstitious — about  religious  forms  of  thought  and  worship. 
It  seemed  to  Barton  as  if  Heywood  worshipped  institutions  and 
cared  little  for  men, — much  for  the  temple,  nothing  for  the 
worshippers. 

In  spite  of  all  these  differences,  these  young  men  became  warm 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England.  307 

friends.  Frientlsliip  is  not  the  result  of  reasoning,  but  of  sympathy ; 
and  sympathy  is  a  thing  too  mysterious  for  sokition.  AVhy  do 
some  like  the  smell  of  sandal  wood  and  others  sicken  at  it?  Why 
is  bitter  agreeable  to  some  and  offensive  to  others  ? 

Lovers  sit  in  the  early  ecstasy,  saying.  Tell  me  tctiy  you  love 
me  ?  And  then,  when  every  reason  is  given  that  fancy  can  suggest, 
does  not  every  one  know  tliat  there  is  something  deeper  than  all 
that  is  told  ? — that  there  is  in  the  hidden  nature  of  faculty  an 
attraction  of  one  for  another,  which,  when  the  conditions  are  once 
secured,  acts  as  do  the  great  attractions  of  the  globe,  drawing  all 
things  together  centreward.  So  it  is  that  people  love,  not  only 
without  the  leave  of  reason,  but  against  all  its  protests.  There  is 
a  wisdom  of  feeling,  as  well  as  of  thought.  Calculation  is  as  often 
wrong  as  inspiration.  The  intuitions  of  our  moral  sentiments 
seldom  mislead  us.  The  passions  need  the  rein  and  curb,  but 
moral  sentiments  need  the  spar. 

Such  differences  could  not  but  stir  up  frequent  discussions 
between  these  friends.  Discussions  carried  on  from  day  to  day 
began  to  work  their  natural  effect  upon  Heywood.  Questions 
began  to  arise  in  his  mind.  Doubts  began  to  hover  unbidden  over 
themes  before  unsullied  by  tlie  faintest  uncertainty.  lie  shrank 
back  from  the  experience. 

"  Barton,  what's  the  use  of  all  this  disturbance  ?  A  fellow  had 
better  stick  to  the  religion  to  which  he  was  educated.  I  do  not 
think  that  it  is  the  gentlemanly  thing  for  a  man  to  desert  his  side. 
The  Church  is  a  good  bridge  enough  for  me.  If  it  is  not  right,  it 
is  not  likely  that  I  could  mend  it." 

"But  what,"  said  Barton,  "if  the  bridge  should  stop  before 
you  reach  the  farther  bank  ?  " 

"It  will  be  time  enough  then,"  replied  Heywood,  "  to  consider 
what  I  shall  do.  But  the  case  is  this  :  here  is  a  river  so  wide  that 
neither  you  nor  I  can  see  the  further  bank.  .  It  is  a  turbulent  and 
dangerous  water.  I  see  a  bridge  which  has  a  good  and  solid  abut- 
ment on  this  side.  As  far  as  the  eye  can  reach  the  bridgeway  is 
secure  and  ample.  I  propose  to  try  it.  You,  on  the  contrary, 
have  a  notion  that  you  will  row  yourself  over  the  stream,  and  with 
a  skiff  and  an  oar  you  intend  to  play  ferrynlan !  " 

"  Your  illustration  is  ingenious  at  least,"  said  Barton.  "  Xow 
give  me  my  turn.     We  are  upon  an  island  in  the  ocean,  desiring 


308  Norwood ;  or, 

to  return  to  our  homes.  Many  vessels  appear,  and  offer  to  take  us 
off.  All  claim  to  be  safe  and  efficient.  Shall  a  man  use  his  reason 
and  judgment  in  determining  whether  any  of  them,  and,  if  any, 
which  is  safe  and  trustworthy  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  end  to  figures,"  said  Heywood,  "  you  can  prove 
any  thing  and  disprove  any  thing  by  ingenious  illustrations.  I've 
seen  many  a  jury  led  to  the  very  deuce  by  a  lawyer  skilful  in 
metaphors  and  similes,  although  the  facts  and  the  law  were  against 
Lis  case.  But  the  fact  is,  Barton,  I  am  no  Yankee.  I  am  not 
troubled  with  that  intolerable  curiosity  which  puts  your  people 
upon  prying  into  every  thing  in  creation.  If  the  good  Lord  wants 
to  keep  any  thing  secret,  I  can't  imagine  what  he  created  Yankees 
for!  They  are  the  most  restlessly  inquisitive  creatures — always 
fretting  themselves  to  find  out  something  that  was  hidden  away 
on  purpose.  If  Nature  has  a  secret,  a  Yankee,  I'll  be  bound,  will 
pick  the  lock  wlhiere  it  is  kept,  or  be  eaves-dropping  till  he  gets 
hold  of  it.  The  fact  is,  there  is  too  much  brain  here  in  New  Eng- 
land. Every  body  is  racing  and  chasing  after  causes.  I  believe 
your  people  think  they  have  the  responsibility  of  the  universe  on 
their  shoulders.  When  the  Bible  said,  '  Canst  thou  find  out  the 
Almighty  to  perfection?'  there  were  no  Yankees  about.  Since 
then,  five  hundred  ministers  in  this  very  New  England  think  they 
have  done  it !  They  have  found  God  out — all  that  He  has  done, 
why  He  did  it,  what  He  has  not  done,  and  why  He  could  not  do 
it !  Did  you  hear  that  young  sprout  preach,  last  Sunday  afternoon, 
fresh  from  New  Haven?  He  was  amazingly  precocious.  He 
went  on  glibly  unfolding  moral  government.  '  God  imist  do  this,' 
and,  '  God,  from  the  nature  of  things,  cannot  do  that.'  There  was 
not  a  thing  about  the  Infinite  and  Eternal  which  he  did  not  fancy 
himself  entirely  familiar  with  !  Pah  !  I  hate  so  much  disturbance. 
A  gentleman  wants  a  decorous  faith,  a  good,  plain,  sensible 
worship ;  and  then,  with  a  good  conscience,  he  turns  to  the  enjoy- 
ment of  life,  leaving  to  the  Deity  and — excuse  me ! — to  the  Yankees 
the  management  of  unfathomable  mysteries." 

Barton  could  not  help  laughing  at  Heywood's  banter,  extrav- 
agant as  it  seemed. 

"Well,  Heywood,"  said  he,  ''I  admit  that  there  is  something 
of  the  Greek  in  the  Yankee  nature.  Dr.  Wentworth  says  that  the 
New  England  mind  is  a  threefold  cross — it  has  the  moral  nature 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  309 

of  the  Jew,  the  intellectual  spirit  of  the  Greek,  and  the  practicaj 
tendencies  of  the  Roman." 

"  Indeed  I  Did  he  say  whence  they  derived  the  element  of 
modesty?  Only  three  nations  spoiled  to  make  this  marvellous 
TsTew  England  ?  That  cannot  account  for  the  riches  which  abound ! 
Let  me  see — ingenuity  from  Egypt,  humility  from  China,  bravery 
— well,  that  must  be  indigenous,  it  is  of  a  peculiar  kind." 

"  That  will  do,  Iley  wood !  that  will  do.  You  have  given 
reasons  enough  already,  why  Virginia  should  send  her  daughters 
to  New  England  for  education  and  her  sons  for  wives  !  The  State 
that  yields  the  best  schools  and  finest  women  ranks  highest." 

It  might  be  supposed  that  on  a  subject  so  all-engrossing  as 
politics  had  become  in  the  spring  and  summer  of  1860,  two  young 
men  like  Cathcart  and  Heywood  would  find  themselves  often  in 
collision.  But  Heywood  had  not  adopted  the  extreme  views  that 
had  prevailed  in  the  South  on  the  subject  of  slavery.  He  regarded 
the  institution  as  a  misfortune.  But  he  apologized  for  it,  as  a 
thing  entailed  upon  the  South,  and  for  which  no  present  remedy 
could  be  found.  Though  Heywood  deemed  it  prudent  to  abstain 
from  an  active  part  in  politics,  yet  it  was  plain  he  did  not  care  to 
have  it  concealed  that  his  sympathy  was  with  his  Southern  kin- 
dred. By  a  sort  of  understanding,  at  length,  Tom  Heywood  and 
Cathcart  avoided  all  discussions  on  current  topics.  But  when  did 
two  clouds  oppositely  charged  ever  come  together  without  draw- 
ing-each other's  lightning  ?  Then  comes  the  thunder-crash  ;  after- 
ward it  clears  up,  and  for  days  the  air  wiU  be  purer.  But  such 
clashes  between  friends  are  safer  in  almost  any  other  matter  than 
politics.  In  spite  of  every  effort,  they  found  themselves  less 
intimate,  less  affectionate  and  confiding.  Other  causes  also  tended 
and  tempted  to  more  alienation. 

Hey  wood's  aunt  had  secretly  determined  to  spare  no  pains  to 
bring  about  a  connection  between  Eose  "Wentworth  and  young 
Heywood.  In  the  first  place,  she  deemed  the  connection  one 
eminently  fit  to  be  made.  They  seemed  suited  to  each  other. 
"Was  he  not  a  fine  fellow,  handsome,  of  gentlemanly  manners,  of 
good  disposition,  of  good  family  and  connections  ?  "Was  not  Rose 
of  noble  presence,  most  comely,  a  woman  of  genius,  yet  of  rare 
domestic  qualities,  of  great  culture,  trained  to  observation,  and 
withal  free  from  pedantry?      What  more  could    be  wanting? 


310  'Norwood ;  or. 

Nothing  except  the  consent  of  the  pai-ties.  Match-making  is  an 
art  so  fascinating  that  it  is  no  wonder  that  people  become  addicted 
to  it.  Love  in  young  people  is  of  itself  one  of  the  most  charming 
spectacles  in  human  life.  To  see  the  spark  struck,  the  fire  kindled, 
its  first  faint  flame  spreading,  and  finally  the  full  glow  and  warmth 
established,  and  then  to  be  able  to  say  complacently,  "  I  did  it,"  is 
not  all  this  inducement  and  reward  enough  to  tempt  amiable  souls 
to  this  species  of  benevolence  ? 

Aunt  Chandler  was  no  match-maker.  This  she  often  said. 
But  she  had  no  objection  occasionally  to  give  good  advice.  She 
was  of  that  honest  and  plain-speaking  way  that  inspired  confidence. 
She  was  shrewd  and  prudent.  She  was  really  unselfish.  She  had 
no  daughters  of  her  own.  With  a  great  motherly  heart,  she  had 
no  children.  With  great  skill  in  management,  she  had  nobody  to 
manage.  It  was  quite  natural  when  young  people  came  to  her  for 
advice,  she  should  give  it.  Having  given  advice,  it  was  natural 
that  she  should  be  interested  in  seeing  what  became  of  it.  But 
she  was  not  a  match-maker  !  That  she  disapproved  of.  It  was  a 
responsibility  that  no  one  should  take.  "  No  one  could  tell  after 
all  how  a  match  might  turn  out ;  and  if  badly,  one  could  never 
forgive  one's  self  for  having  brought  it  about." 

There  was  a  great  diflTerence,  she  pleased  herself  with  thinking, 
between  match-making  and  a  mere  influencing  one  to  make  one's 
own  match.  Suggestion,  reasonable  influence  and  suitable  advice 
did  not  amount  to  match-making. 

She  beheld  these  two  young  persons,  Heywood  and  Rose 
Wentworth,  and  saw  what  from  inexperience  they  might  have 
failed  to  perceive,  that  they  were  "just  made  for  each  other." 

She  made  various  occasions  of  meeting  at  her  house,  and  in  her 
grounds — "  no  party,  a  mere  gathering  of  neighbors  in  the  most 
familiar  way ; "  teas  and  door-yard  picnics— all  in  a  manner  so 
natural  and  accidental,  that  she  could  not  forbear  to  admire  the 
furtunate  happenings  of  things.  When  people  of  sagacity  set  on 
foot  plans  with  foresight,  if  they  are  of  a  devout  turn  of  mind,  they 
often  see  the  hand  of  Providence  wonderfully  stretched  out  in 
their  behalf.  When  Mrs.  Chandler  had  sent  some  rare  old  books 
of  prints  over  to  Dr.  Wentworth,  had  heaped  up  Mrs.  Wentworth's 
table  with  fruit,  apologizing  that  their  grounds  produced  so  much 
more  than  they  could  use  that  it  was  a  kindness  if  the  neighbors 


Village  Life  i?i  New  Erigland.  311 

would  help  her  to  use  it,  it  was  natural  that  the  doctor's  family 
should  all  come  over,  without  formality,  to  spend  an  evening,  and 
just  as  natural  that  Mrs.  Chandler  and  her  hushand  should  return 
the  visit.  And  when,  after  the  elderly  people  were  seated  in  a 
manner  evidently  studied  for  their  pleasure,  and  Kose  and  Hey- 
wood  had  the  two  only  places  left,  and  were  obliged  accidentally  to 
hear  each  other  company,  and  seemed  content  to  do  so,  Mrs. 
Chandler,  looking  down  upon  them  with  benevolent  eyes,  could 
not  refrain  a  pious  and  grateful  ejaculation  :  ''How  providential 
this  is !  If  I  had  had  the  ordering  of  it  myself,  the  Lord  could 
not  have  pleased  me  better ! "  The  more  she  thought  about  it 
the  more  Providence  seemed  to  smile.  The  more  Providence 
favored  it  the  more  Mrs.  Chandler  smiled.  It  was  so  easy  for  her 
to  act  with  sagacity  that  she  did  not  see  herself  in  many  events 
which  fell  out,  and  fell  out  of  her  hand. 

Weeks  and  months  passed.  The  young  people  were  happy ; 
the  old  people  were  happy.  It  seemed  strange,  however,  that 
Heywood  had  never  spoken  a  word  to  his  aunt  of  his  intentions. 
In  imagination,  she  had  seen  the  happy  pair  coming  to  thank  her, 
she  had  helped  to  arrange  the  bridal  party,  she  had  seen  the  cere- 
mony, she  had  been  to  church  on  the  first  Sunday  after  their  re- 
turn from  the  bridal  trip,  and  she  had  drank  in  great  draughts  of 
satisfaction  at  the  admiration  with  which  all  the  congregation 
looked  on  the  beautiful  couple  ;  she  had  walked  home  behind  them 
and  observed  with  rare  relish  those  tender  ways  of  first-blossoming 
love,  which  discover  newly-married  people  as  surely  as  a  bed  of 
mignonnette — simple  as  it  looks — is  detected  by  its  odor.  But, 
pleasing  as  are  the  pictures  of  imagination,  a  practical  mind  needs 
something  less  spiritual  and  more  substantial.  Why  did  not  Hey- 
wood make  some  progress?  Did  not  Eose  please  him  ?  Or  was 
there  some  impediment  ?  It  was  plain  that  no  visible  progress  was 
made.  Therefore,  though  averse  to  match-making,  it  was  prop- 
er that  Mrs.  Chandler  should  take  observations  and  find  out  the 
latitude  and  longitude  of  affairs. 

Could  it  be  that  Heywood  was  already  engaged  in  Virginia  ? 
The  thought  was  startling.  His  aunt  did  not  wait  long  for  a  prov- 
idential opening;  but,  on  Heywood's  return  from  an  excursion, 
fell  into  conversation  with  him. 

"Have  you  had  a  pleasant  time,  Heywood?  of  course  you  have, 
14=^ 


312  Noricood ;  or, 

I  can  see  by  your  face.  TThen  I  was  yonng,  they  did  not  have  as 
many  rides  and  picnics  as  they  do  now  ;  though  I  fancy  the  young 
women  then  were  more  sedate,  less  frivolous  and  pleasure-seeking 
than  now." 

"  Bless  me,  aunt,  I  do  not  know  what  you  would  call  propriety 
if  the  Xorwood  girls  are  not  proper  !  I  wish  you  might  see  some 
of  our  highflyers  in  the  South  !  " 

"  I  suppose  you  naturally  would  prefer  the  society  of  Southern 
young  ladies  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  about  that ;  of  course  I  like  my  own  folks." 

"  "Well,  suppose  you  were  going  to  settle  down  in  life,  and 
wanted  to  choose  a  wife — for  I  take  it  for  granted  that  you  are  not 
engaged — are  you  ? " 

"  No,  aunt,  I  am  too  young  for  that,  or,  at  any  rate,  not  yet 
quite  ready  to  settle  down.  Besides,  no  man  marries  till  his  time 
comes.     I  am  waiting  till  I  see  some  one  that  is  irresistible." 

"  Do  you  expect  some  one  to  charge  upon  you  and  whirl  you 
away  captive  ?  " 

"  I^To,  not  exactly  that;  but  one  likes  shy  game  and  fish  not 
easily  landed.  I  see  persons  good  enough,  doubtless — perhaps  too 
good  for  me  ;  yet,  after  all,  one  does  not  like  to  know  before  he 
takes  a  step  just  how  it  will  all  end." 

"Upon  my  word,  Hey  wood,  this  is  superlatively  modest!  I 
did  not  think  that  you  were  one  of  those  conceited  dandies  that 
thought  every  woman  who  looked  at  him  was  in  love  with  him. 
But  I  can  tell  you  in  good  earnest,  sir,  that  those  who  are  most 
worthy  when  won  are  not  the  easiest  to  win." 

"  Aunt,  1  mean  no  ofience  to  the  sex,  and  none  to  you  espe- 
cially. You  asked  me  a  plain  question,  and  I  gave  you  a  plain 
answer." 

"  Of  the  young  ladies,  sir  malapert,  whom  you  have  laid  under 
obligation  this  afternoon  with  your  charming  presence,  how  many 
of  them  do  you  believe  that  you  could  have  for  the  asking  ?  " 

"  Every  one  of  them.  This  sounds  conceited  to  you,  aunt,  but 
I  look  at  it  in  this  way :  I  know  that  I  am  a  presentable  young 
gentleman,  with  reasonably  good  prospects.  I  cannot  deny  the 
sight  of  my  eyes  that  my  presence  is  agreeable  to  the  young  ladies. 
I  take  it  for  granted  that  they  all  expect  to  enter  the  matrimonial 
state  whenever  a  suitable  ofier  is  made ;  and  it  does  not  seem  con- 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  31s 

ceited  at  all  to  imagine  that  a  lady  who  receives  your  addresses 
with  marked  favor  would  accept  your  offer,  should  you  press  a 
suit." 

"  You  were  never  more  mistaken  in  your  life.  I  will  instance 
but  a  single  one — Rose  Wentworth.  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  that 
you  might  win  her;  but  it  will  not  be  done  just  by  the  asking,  let 
me  tell  you." 

"  Why,  there  was  not  one  of  the  party  so  cordial  and  frank.  I 
went  home  with  her,  and  she  seemed  a  good  deal  softened  and 
sentimental.  She  talked  of  trees  and  flowers,  and  of  the  spirit  and 
of  an  inner  life.  I  think  I  understand  such  things.  If  I  had  just 
said  the  word,  I  fully  believe  that  I  should  now  be  asking  your 
approbation  to  our  union," 

"  This  passes  all  belief!  I  lose  faith  in  you,  at  least  in  your 
good  judgment.  You  have  no  more  conception  of  Eose  TVent- 
worth'  than  you  have  of  those  who  live  in  the  stars.  If  you  had 
presumed  upon  her  cordial  ways  and  mentioned  love,  I  should  like 
to  have  stood  by  and  seen  her  large  eyes  flash  upon  you." 

"  Why,  aunt,  do  you  think  she  is  such  a  paragon  ?  " 

*'  I  do — I  do.  She  is  beyond  all  words  the  noblest  young  woman 
that  I  have  ever  known.  But  what  she  is  no  one  can  know,  nor 
she  herself,  until  something  rouses  her.  '  She  is  capable  of  rising 
into  grandeur  if  circumstances  favored.  If  by  the  wisest  and 
most  skilful  wooing  you  could  win  Rose,  you  Avould  be  the  happiest 
of  living  men  ;  and  twenty  years  hence  you  would  find  your  hap- 
piness but  just  begun !  " 

"  ^h^^  aunt,  you  rather  pique  my  curiosity.  If  you  really 
think  that  she  is  so  hard  to  win,  I  am  almost  disposed  to  try  it." 

"  Young  man,"  said  Mrs.  Chandler,  almost  sternly,  "  you  may 
as  well  let  it  alone  as  to  try  in  that  spirit." 

And  the  subject  was  dropped. 

Some  influences  are  like  spurs,  and  striking  into  the  sides  they 
produce  instant  motion.  Others  are  seeds,  and  when  sown  seem 
utterly  lost ;  yet  in  silence  and  darkness  they  are  germinating  and 
growing.  Mrs.  Chandler  said  no  more,  but  she  thought  a  good 
deal  more. 

"  I  don't  believe  things  will  rest  as  they  are.  I  think  Heywood 
has  received  some  notions  that  will  work  in  him.  But  what  if 
Rose  should  not  take  a  fancy  to  him  ?      Of  course  she  likes  him  ; 


3U  Norwood. 

but  that  does  not  mean  any  thing  in  particular.  She  is  a  world  too 
kind  and  generous,  and  likes  every  body,  and  Heywood  has  been 
fooled  by  it.  He  thinks  that  kindness  is  love.  That's  just  like  a 
man !  But  then  he  has  all  his  life  been  run  after  and  praised,  poor 
fellow.    He  is  to  be  pitied,  not  blamed." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

VAPJETIES. 

NoTin>JG  enhances  tlie  value  of  an  object  more  than  to  know 
that  others  value  it  and  are  competing  for  it.  Mrs.  Chandler  fur- 
nished both  stimulants  to  Heywood.  I  cannot  say  how  she  ob- 
tained the  information,  but  she  had  been  led  to  believe  that  Barton 
Cathcart  had  directed  his  attentions  toward  Miss  Went  worth. 
Some  such  stories  had  risen  and  died  out  in  the  village.  The  signs 
all  failed.  Mrs.  Chandler,  perhaps,  had  not  even  heard  of  them. 
One  day,  however,  she  returned  home  after  a  visit  to  Dr.  Went- 
worth's,  and  in  consequence  of  information— what,  I  never  knew 
—she  said  to  her  husband,  by  the  merest  accident,  in  Heywood's 

presence : 

"  Would  it  not  be  strange,  my  dear,  if  Barton  Cathcart  should 
marry  Rose  Wentworth  ?  " 

Her  husband  looked  at  her  with  simplicity,  and  said : 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  be  a  good  match  ? " 

"  I  don't  see  any  objection,  provided  the  parties  are  willing." 

"But  really,  my  dear,  I  can't  hai-dly  imagine  that  Rose  should 
prefer  such  a  man,  unless  it  was  her  only  chance.  But  then  you 
can  never  teU.  Getting  in  love  is  like  picking  garden  flowers  in 
the  night.  You  may  get  a  violet,  or  you  may  pick  a  nettle.  It 
seems  to  me  that  Rose  might  do  better  than  to  take  Cathcart." 

Tom  Heywood  thought  it  worth  his  while  to  take  a  more  close 
survey  of  the  ground.  He  had  been  under  the  impression  for 
some  time  that  he  had  gone  as  far  as  it  was  safe  to  go  unless  he 
were  willing  to  go  further ;  that  Rose  was  very  susceptible  and 
simple  ;  and  that,  as  a  man  of  honor,  it  was  his  duty,  having  a  far 
better  knowledge  of  life  and  especially  of  affairs  of  the  heart,  to 
see  to  it  that  she  was  not  harmed. 

He  was  so  far  influenced  by  his  aunt's  remarks  from  time  to 
time  that  he  was  determined  at  any  rate  to  probe  the  matter,  and 
to  see  just  how  things  really  were.  His  visits  became  more  fre- 
quent, and  his  attentions  were  assiduoua     He  exerted  himself  in 


316  Norwood;  or, 

conversation,  he  went  througli  tlie  usi^al  musical  routine  on  such 
occasions,  and  after  a  considerable  period  he  found  himself  in  just 
the  same  place  as  at  the  beginning.  It  was  a  new  experience,  and 
piqued  his  pride.  He  began  to  perceive  some  zest  in  this  pursuit. 
On  the  whole,  he  was  glad  that  Miss  Wentworth  had  not  dropped 
into  his  hands  as  easily  as  he  at  first  feared.  He  was  satisfied  that 
Miss  Rose  was  genuine ;  that  there  was  no  artfulness ;.  that  she 
was  playing  no  part. 

He  absented  himself  for  a  time,  but  at  his  next  visit  his  absence 
excited  no  remark.  He  discussed  the  ladies  of  Norwood,  and  ex- 
pressed admiration  for  one  or  two  in  particular.  He  found  Miss 
Rose  the  most  generous  of  critics  and  the  most  discriminating  of 
friends.  Thus  far  Miss  Wentworth  had  been  to  him  an  inferior,  in 
the  sense  that  a  beautiful  child  is  to  an  elder  brother.  He  began, 
to  admit  now  that  she  was  his  equal,  and  to  experience  a  respect 
which  he  had  never  felt  before  for  a  pretty  woman.  He  now  read 
favorite  authors  aloud,  and  indulged  in  criticisms.  He  discussed 
various  questions  in  literature,  in  art,  in  science.  If  Heywood 
chose  to  talk  of  gay  trifles,  so  did  she.  Just  as  naturally  and  un- 
affectedly did  she  follow  and  accompany  him  if  music  or  painting 
were  the  theme.  If  he  introduced  a  discussion,  Rose  entered  with 
zest,  but  never  with  heat,  into  philosophical  reasonings,  and  in 
matters  of  natural  science  proved  herself  far  better  informed  than 
was  Heywood.  He  could  not  deny  that  a  more  intimate  acquaint- 
ance raised  his  opinion  of  Miss  "Wentworth.  Indeed  he  began  to 
admit  to  himself  that  she  was  a  woman  worthy  of  pursuit !  But 
he  made  no  progress.  He  was  as  near,  and  just  as  far  from,  her, 
after  weeks  and  months  had  passed,  as  at  the  beginning.  He  could 
not  understand  it.  He  watched  to  discover  the  exquisite  art,  the 
subtle  fence,  by  which  he  was  warded  off.  ISTothing  could  be  dis- 
covered but  simple,  artless,  straightforward  conduct. 

It  would  not  be  just  to  leave  the  impression  that  Heywood's 
pride  alone,  or  chiefly,  had  wrought  in  him  a  determination  to 
press  his  suit  to  an  issue.  At  every  step  he  found  warmer  senti- 
ments kindling.  Admiration  had  passed  on  a  stage,  and  began  to 
take  on  the  colors  of  love.  Love,  once  entertained,  throve  ;  and 
with  a  genuine  affection  there  came  a  great  change  over  him,  and 
for  the  better.  A  deep  and  true  love  is  fuU  of  humility  and 
gratitude.     Heywood  dropped  that  ill-fitting  conceit  which  veiled 


Villa()e  Life  in  New  England.  31^/ 

his  real  goodness,  and  his  overweening  confidence  in  himself  gave 
way  to  diffidence.  Once  or  twice,  arming  himself  with  a  deter- 
mination to  bring  his  fate  to  an  issue,  he  found  himself,  he  knew 
not  how,  carried  away  from  his  purpose,  and  as  far  from  success  as 
ever. 

At  last  he  determined  that,  with  whatever  abruptness  it  was 
necessary,  he  would  make  known  to  Eose  his  sentiments,  and,  at 
least,  know  whether  or  not  he  was  to  be  blessed. 

There  was  to  be  the  weekly  gathering  at  Dr.  "Wentworth's  on 
ihe  morrow.  The  house  and  grounds  lay  open  to  all  family  friends. 
No  formality  prevailed.  Every  one  was  left  to  come  and  go  with 
perfect  freedom.  One  might  be  sure  of  seeing  Judge  Bacon  there, 
and  Mr.  Edwards,  and  almost  always  Parson  Buell,  and  Mr.  Brett, 
and  Mrs.  Chandler,  and  occasionally  Mr.  Chandler,  and  once  in  a 
while 'Biah'Cathcart  and  his  wife.  Alice  came  every  week,  and 
Barton  was  there  at  least  to  take  tea.  Besides  these  regulars, 
there  was  a  militia  of  visitors,  or  the  friends  of  friends,  so  that  on 
pleasant  days,  sometimes  two  or  three  score  of  people  roamed 
about  the  gi'ounds,  in  knots  and  circles ;  the  young  people  securing 
their  own  company,  and  the  elder  people  discoursing  apart,  or 
■  joining  the  young  folks,  as  it  chanced  to  please  them.  It  is  in  sdch 
cfrcumstances  that  love  finds  its  fairest  opportunities.  A  thousand 
chances  turn  np  for  a  look,  a  word  with  an  emphasis,  or  for  a 
passing  sentence,  and  if  both  parties  be  in  sympathy,  it  is  surpris- 
ing to  see  by  how  many  accidents  they  are  favored.  They  are  sent 
on  some  errand,  one  to  help  the  other ;  or  they  are  left  alone, 
every  person  about  them  having  the  most  natural  reasons  in  the 
world  for  going  ofi*.  The  very  sun  seems  to  wink  at  them  through 
the  blinking  leaves.  The  shadows  that  gather  about  them  serve 
as  a  protecting  screen.  Every  thing  favors  fortunate  love !  No 
one  knew  the  advantages  of  such  circumstances  better  than  Iley- 
wood.     No  one  had  less  art  to  discern  opportunity  than  Cathcart. 

On  the  appointed  morrow,  therefore.  Hey  wood,  with  a  charm- 
ing grace,  passed  from  group  to  group,  and  not  a  person  in  the 
grounds  was  there  who  did  not  feel  that  Heywood  had  paid  them 
most  agreeable  personal  attention.  Certainly  Alice  Cathcart 
thought  so  with  reason.  Heywood  took  his  place  by  her  side, 
and  either  he  found  her  in  her  happiest  mood,  or  had  the  art  to 
draw  forth  her  hidden  power  :  for  Alice  fairly  blossomed.     Rose, 


318  Norwood ;  OTy 

who  knew  what  treasure  lay  hidden  deep  within,  was  delighted 
to  have  others  perceive  it.  Barton  had  never  seen  his  sister  so 
radiant,  and  exliibit  such  force  of  conversaticm.  She  met  Hey- 
wood's  compliments  and  threw  them  back  as  a  mkror  throws 
hack  the  sunlight  that  falls  upon  it ;  and  when,  in  an  encounter 
of  wit  that  followed,  Alice  fau-ly  vanquished  him,  Heywood,  pluck- 
ing a  wreath  of  the  honeysuckle  vine,  and  twining  in  it  a  spray  or 
two  of  crimson  fuchsias,  with  fine  manner  offered  to  crown  her, 
saying,  with  a  humorous  modesty  :  "The  Muses  are  to  be  crowned, 
not  contended  with." 

All  clapped  and  cried  bravo !  bravo !  and  no  one  seemed  so 
radiantly  happy  as  Rose,  except  Alice  herself.  She  seemed 
strangely  briUiant ;  and"  when  the  beautiful,  glossy  green  leaves, 
and  the  glowing  colors  of  the  fuchsia  were  laid  upon  her  raven 
hair,  Heywood  called  all  to  witness  how  much  she  resembled 
Raphael's  picture  of  "Pofst'e." 

Dr.  Wentworth  and  his  friends  repaired  to  the  old  drooping 
elm.  Soon  they  feU  into  conversation.  I  know  not  how  the  sub- 
ject of  cathedrals  came  up,  but  Dr.  "Wentworth  called  to  Rose  : 

"  My  child,  bring  me  two  or  three  volumes  of  Britton's  Cathe- 
drals of  England.  Perhaps  some  of  these  nimble  gentlemen  will 
help  you." 

Heywood  was  standing  by  Alice,  though  listening  to  every 
thing  that  concerned  Rose.  He  would  have  sprung  to  fulfil  the 
intimation,  but  at  that  moment  Alice  was  addressing  a  question  to 
him.  Barton  Cathcart  quietly  moved  toward  the  house,  and 
repairing  to  the  library,  brought  out  the  volumes.  One  of  them 
was  opened  to  the  ground  plan  of  York  Minster,  and  laid  upon 
the  grass. 

"  Sit  down  by  me,  disciple,"  said  Judge  Bacon  to  Cathcart, 
"  and  hear  Dr.  "Wentworth  make  a  plea  in  behalf  of  idolatry." 

"  The  unassisted  reason  of  man  must  derive  its  notion  of 
I)ivinities  either  from  the  material  world,  or  from  man  himself, 
suspect  that  much  of  what  we  have  been  taught  to  regard  as  a 
stupid  idolatry  was  regarded,  in  its  time,  by  intelligent  worship- 
pers, only  as  a  kind  of  symbolism.  Trees  were  supposed  to  contain 
deities.  Fire  was  the  element  through  which  gods  manifested 
themselves.  If  I  had  lived  before  the  days  of  Revelation,  I  should 
have  worshipped  the  Sun,  or  Trees." 


Villafje  Life  in  New  Englaiid.  319 

"On  such  a  day  as  tbis,  Doctor,"  said  Bacon,  "I  tliink  you 
would  be  glad  to  run  under  your  tree-god  to  get  rid  of  your  sun- 
god.  But  I  suppose  you  would  divide  the  year  between  tbem, 
and  say  prayers  to  the  sun  in  winter,  and  to  the  trees  in  sum- 
mer." 

"  You  were  speaking  of  cathedrals  and  the  origin  of  Gothic 
architecture^"  said  Edwards. 

"  Yes,  I  was  reprobating  the  idea  that  Gothic  architecture  was 
in  any  sense  an  imitation  of  trees.  There  is  some  analogy,  how- 
ever, between  the  impression  made  upon  the  mind  by  a  forest  and 
by  a  cathedral.  There  is  the  same  sense  of  solitary  grandeur,  the 
same  peculiar  feeling  of  solemn  mystery  arising  from  vast  height, 
a  similar  play  of  light  and  shade,  and  a  spirit  of  devotion  which 
I  think  is  spontaneous  and  inevitable  in  both." 

'•  Father,  were  you  as  much  affected  by  the  first  cathedral  that 
you  saw  as  you  expected  to  be  ?  "  asked  Rose,  who  had  placed  a 
stool  near  her  father,  and  left  Alice  on  the  outer  part  of  the  circle 
attended  by  Heywood. 

"  I  really  had  expected  but  little.  It  was  neither  taste  nor 
devotion  that  first  drew  me  to  York  Minster.  It  was  curiosity. 
But  I  was  overwhelmed  with  wonder.  The  mystery  and  awe 
produced  by  height  and  vastness  in  the  interior  I  can  compare  to 
nothing  but  the  feeling  which  one  has  who,  either  by  day,  or  in  a 
starht  night,  lies  alone  in  the  fields  on  his  back,  looking  long 
right  up  into  the  heavens,  which  seem  slowly  to  open,  deeper  and 
more  deep,  until,  with  strange  presentiment,  one  almost  feels  that 
he  is  drawing  near  to  the  Eternal  City !  By  some  subtle  sym- 
pathy, one's  spirit  swells  and  is  conscious  of  wonderful  elevation. 
It  is  a  consciousness  of  superiority,  dignity,  grandeur.  The  same 
thing  befell  me  on  the  first  time  that  I  stood  at  Xiagara.  I  found 
myself  stepping  proudly,  like  a  conqueror,  and  moving  with  the 
dignity  of  a  prince.  But  in  a  cathedral-experience  this  is  tem- 
pered by  certain  other  influences,  which  inspire  tenderness  and 
sadness.  Now  if  upon  this  state  of  mind  there  arises  a  solemn 
chant,  borne  upon  the  waves  of  organ  music,  especially  if  one  is  in 
a  foreign  land,  touched  a  little  with  homesickness,  and  hears 
those  sacred  psalms^- which  are  laden  with  the  most  solemn  and 
tender  associations  of  his  life,  coming  back  to  him  in  such  a  be- 
wildering place,  fringed  with  murmuring  echoes,  is  it  strange  that 


320  Norwood;  01\ 

the  spirit  seems  to  drop  the  body,  and  to  hover,  in  its  full  glorioua 
liberty,  on  the  bounds  of  the  Infinite  and  the  Eternal  ?  " 

Judge  Bacon  watched  the  Doctor,  as  he  proceeded,  with  a 
smile,  whether  of  sympathy  or  of  incredulity  one  could  not  well 
divine.  iReither  did  his  words  make  his  real  thoughts  any  clearer. 
He  was  so  used  to  a  bantering  irony  that  he  often  employed  it 
when,  at  heart,  he  was  in  full  sympathy  with  the  person  against 
whom  it  was  directed.  "    ■ 

"  I  confess.  Doctor,"  said  he  with  mock  sadness,  "that  I  have 
never  felt  this  sense  of  leaving  the  body  and  rising  into  a  beatific 
condition,  except  in  one  set  of  circumstances." 

"  What  were  they  ? "  asked  Wentworth,  with  some  slight 
surprise. 

"  When  I  have  been  in  the  act  of  falling  asleep  in  church, 
under  the  refreshing  influence  of  a  long  and  sound  discourse?  " 

"  You  are  not  a  frequent  sleeper.  Judge,  according  to  my  ob- 
servations," said  Parson  Buell.  "Indeed  I  have  regarded  you  as 
one  of  the  wakeful  and  watching." 

"Ah,  that  is  the  minister's  fault.  Instead  of  the  absurd 
method  now  pursued  of  doctrinal  examination,  if  I  were  set  to 
select  clergymen,  I  should  pick  and  determine  by  their  somnifer- 
ousness.  I  would  settle  the  man  that  yielded  sleep,  and  turn 
away  every  candidate  that  kept  me  awake.  A  minister  should  be 
a  true  Pulpit  Poppy !  But  go  on.  Doctor,  as  your  remarks  were 
not  half  an  hour  long,  I  know  that  you  had  but  just  entered  on 
the  topic  of  cathedrals." 

"  The  cathedral  is  really  a  symbol  of  Christianity,  complex, 
multitudinous,  sublime  !  It  was  not  enough  for  men  to  make  the 
cross  the  symbol  of  their  faith,  to  wear  it  on  the  person,  to  afl&x  it 
to  churches,  to  shape  utensils  to  its  form,  to  fashion  the  very  doors 
and  windows  so  that  they  should  frame  to  the  eye  the  figure  of 
the  cross ;  but  some  bold  man  determined  that  the  cross  should  be 
reared  in  proportions  so  vast  that  a  Christian  assembly  could  wor- 
ship, not  before  it,  but  within  it.  Look  upon  this  ground  plan. 
It  is  a  noble  cross.  A  cathedral  stript  of  its  accessories  is  but  a 
sublime  cross,  subsidizing  to  itself  the  resources  of  society.  The 
gorgeous  windows,  the  elaborate  ornaments,  the  exquisite  carvings 
of  men,  beasts  and  foliage,  silently  represent  the  homage  which 
art,  man,  and  nature,  pay  to  the  cross.     Symbolism  can  go  nc 


V' II age  Life  in  New  England.  321 

further.  Ev<.ry  city  of  England  has  lying  in.  tranquil  grandeuj 
within  it  an  architectural  cross.  Not  that  one  which  glows  upon 
the  spire  ILke  the  morning  and  the  evening  star  ;  nor  those  whicl 
Btand  at  the  altar  ;  or  are  wrought  in  colors  upon  the  windows  ■. 
but  in  the  foundations  themselves !  All  the  rough  and  hidden 
stones  have  for  hundreds  of  years  lain  in  the  silent  and  invisible 
fashions  of  the  cross,  upon  whose  pattern  rises — glowing  more 
and  more,  with  beauty  and  art — every  wall,  and  the  mighty  whole. 
The  cross  is  thus  the  root  of  architecture  !  " 

"  For  once,  I  must  say,  bravo !  Your  notions  have  some 
plausibleness,  though  little  originality,"  said  Judge  Bacon  ;  "and  I 
can  well  imagine  how  a  thousand  men  shut  up  in  a  stone  cross,  on 
oak  benches,  and  obliged  to  listen,  as  we  are,  to  prolix  discourse, 
might  think  it  a  kind  of  crucifixion." 

"  Oh,  Judge,  if  I  could  once  see  you  fairly  taken  off  your  feet 
with  enthusiasm,  as  I  was  at  Winchester,  I  would  willingly  suffer 
all  your  jibes  for  the  rest  of  my  life," 

"How  was  that,  father?  Do  tell  us,"  said  Eose,  who  had 
changed  her  place  to  give  Alice  a  nearer  seat,  placing  herself  in 
such  a  way  that  Heywood  was  no  longer  facing  her. 

"  The  day  had  been  warm,  like  this,  though  a  month  earlier,  it 
being  in  July.  The  afternoon  was  well  advanced,  and  the  sun 
was  sunk  so  low  that  it  poured  its  light  through  the  exhalations 
rising  from  the  ground — very  much  as  the  sun  is  now  doing,"  said 
the  doctor,  turning  toward  the  west.  "  See  how  these  evergreens 
seem  fairly  banked  up  against  a  very  cloud  of  light !  Well,  I  had 
little  idea  of  the  interior  of  Winchester  Cathedral,  and  the  exterior 
was  not  as  impressive  as  several  others.  But  as  I  entered  the 
west  door,  the  nave  clear  up  to  the  ceiling  seemed  to  blaze  with 
light.  The  construction  stone  is  pale  yellow,  almost  white,  and 
the  red  light  of  this  afternoon  gave  it  a  peculiar  charm.  Unlike 
other  cathedrals,  there  were  no  dark  spaces,  no  mysterious  recesses, 
nothing  dim  or  solemn.  All  was  radiant  and  glorious.  It  was 
not  Mystery  and  Awe,  but  Eevelation  and  Joy,  that  were  symbol- 
ized !  To  complete  the  enchantment,  the  organ  was  filling  the 
vast  space  with  rich  harmonies." 

Judge  Bacon,  who  had  been  looking  toward  the  haze  of  golden 
light,  turned  round  with  an  impressive  gesture. 

"My  dear  Doctor,  if  one  could  only  go  to  meeting  in  a  cathe- 


322  Norwood ;  or, 

dral,  what  joy  would  it  be  !  Especially  for  children,  what  a  god 
send  under  a  dull  sermon.  ISTow  what  can  children  do  in  church  j 
The  sermon  they  can't  understand.  They  are  not  allowed  tc 
sleep ;  they  are  too  tired  to  sit  np,  and  are  not  allowed  to  lie 
down.  Cry  they  can't,  and  laugh  they  must  not.  I  used  slyly  to 
make  rabbits  with  my  handkerchief.  But  a  cathedral  affords 
boundless  amusement  for  the  eyes.  "While  a  prosaic  passage  was 
droning  in  my  ears,  I  could  busy  myself  in  tracing  the  colors  in  the 
windows,  making  out  the  ridiculous  old  saints,  or  recalling  the 
amusing  legends.  If  the  discourse  ran  on  doctrine — the  veritable 
act  of  giving  a  stone  to  those  who  want  bread — I  could  study  the 
curious  carvings — stone  foliage,  stone  dragons,  stone  beasts,  in  all 
their  varieties !  Look  here,  Doctor, — I  believe  that  cathedrals 
would  convert  me !  What  a  pity  that  we  have  none  !  One  of  the 
benefits  which  I  anticipate  from  the  spread  of  Eomanism  in 
America  is  the  introduction  of  the  Eoman  Civil  Law  and  of  cathe- 
drals to  put  to  shame  the  plainness  of  meeting-houses,  and  also  to 
ally  religion  with  taste !  " 

"  You  might  as  well  sigh  for  barons'  castles,  princes,  palaces, 
Roman  forums,  Greek  temples,  Egyptian  pyramids.  Men  forget 
that  all  institutions,  customs,  schools  of  painting,  special  forms  of 
architecture,  are  the  outworking  of  the  inward  spirit  of  an  Age. 
When  that  spirit  changes,  or  dies  out,  it  is  in  vain  to  attempt  to 
reproduce  its  mere  forms  again,  except  as  dead  memorials.  Cathe- 
drals had  their  epoch.  They  represent  a  geologic  period,  as  it 
were,  in  the  moral  world.  We  might  as  well  attempt  to  bring 
back  ancient  manuscripts  with  their  splendid  illuminations,  instead 
of  printed  books ;  or  to  re-introduce  the  armor  and  armies  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  instead  of  rifles  and  artillery.  It  is  this  very  blunder 
that  they  commit  who  attempt  to  reproduce  the  art-spirit  of  a  period 
long  gone  by,  by  copying  its  dead  forms.  If  it  was  good  for  any 
thing  in  its  own  time,  that  is  the  very  reason  why  it  will  be  out 
of  place  in  our  time." 

"  For  gracious'  sake,  Doctor,  pause  !  What  have  we  done  to 
deserve  such  a  discourse  ?  Bethink  you  !  It  is  not  Sunday !  A 
gentleman  in  Boston  sent  his  Irish  servant  to  his  wine  cellar  to 
draw  from  a  cask  of  choice  Madeira  a  specimen  glass.  The  servant 
forgot  to  turn  the  faucet,  and  all  night  the  stream  trickled — ran— ' 
trickled,  until  not  a  drop  was  left." 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  32s 

"  Well,  Judge,  what  then  ? " 

"  Sure  enough,  I  hegin  to  see  that  the  case  will  not  apply  to 
you  ;  for  the  cask  did  at  length  run  dry,  and  stop.  You  run  dry 
enough,  hut  never  stop.  But,  at  the  risk  of  starting  you  off  again, 
I  cannot  help  saying  that,  after  such  a  sentimental  description  as 
you  gave  of  the  effects  of  a  cathedral  on  yoii^  to  follow  on  with  the 
statement  that  cathedrals  have  no  longer  any  function — are  dead — 
mere  mighty  museums,  is  peculiarly  refreshing  to  a  logical  mind !  " 

"  Both  things  are  true,  nevertheless.  I  was  speaking  of  old 
cathedrals,  in  whose  presence  a  thousand  years  rise  up  in  dim 
procession,  whose  very  strangeness  stirs  the  imagination,  in  which 
lie  huried  kings  and  prelates  whose  doings  filled  their  own  age 
and  gave  color  to  history, — to  walk  in  them  is  like  a  vision  of  the 
Resurrection!  Generations  long  gone,  with  passions  like  ours, hut 
with  ideas  foreign  and  strange,  rise  before  you.  While  the  trance 
is  upon  you,  if  the  organ  sounds  and  the  choir  chant,  you  seem  to 
stand  with  the  exceeding  great  multitude  of  past  ages,  and  the 
imagination,  that  flies  free  through  all  time  and  space,  gathers 
about  you  the  good  and  great  of  ten  centuries,  and  you  are  one  of 
an  invisible  multitude  which  no  nian  can  number,  of  every  age,  and 
all  tongues,  lifting  up  a  common  praise  to  God !  Your  own  heart, 
for  the  moment,  seems  to  express  a  devotion  as  wide  as  creation, 
and  to  be  the  instrument  by  which  generations  are  praising  God ! 
You  can  reproduce  a  stone  cathedral  in  our  day,  but  can  you 
clothe  it  with  five  hundred  or  a  thousand  years?  A  clean,  new 
cathedral,  in  America,  is  a  solecism.  It  is  not  in  harmony  with 
our  wants,  our  ideas,  ^r  our  sympathies.  It  is  a  huge  and  bungling 
imitation,  and  counterfeit.  It  is  a  forgery  upon  Time.  Even  old 
cathedrals  have  lost  their  power  upon  those  familiar  with  them. 
Use  deadens  romance.  They  are  for  pilgrims, — far-comers,— not 
for  the  resident  inhabitants.  For  a  few,  of  romantic  tendency, 
they  may  retain  their  influence  ever  fresh,  but  for  the  mass  of  men 
they  no  longer  have  any  message.  ■  The  common  people  have  gone 
on  and  left  these  magnificent  monuments  of  the  sincerity  of  a 
strong  but  rude  age  to  poets  and  antiquarians !  " 

"  Religion  seems  to  have  had  a  hard  time  in  this  world.  It  is 
so  busy  with  its  institutions,  its  governments,  its  doctrines  and 
orders  that  it  has  little  time  to  bestow  on  wen." 

"  That  is  more  true  than  you  meant.     But  it  is  not  true  of 


824  Norwood;  or, 

religion  more  than  of  justice,  of  beauty,  of  every  organized  prin- 
ciple." 

"You  are  right  for  once.  Doctor,"  said  Judge  Bacon.  "The 
law  is  an  analogous  case  in  point.  We  go  back  with  great  interest 
and  profit  to  the  Roman  law  and  to  the  common  law  of  England. 
But,  if  the  common  law  of  England  as  it  ^as  three  hundred  years 
ago,  or  if  Justinian's  code  were  to  be  introduced  bodily  into  modern 
courts,  they  would  be  in  incessant  conflict  with  society  in  all  its 
interests." 

Dr.  "Wentworth  resumed : 

"  Cathedrals  and  liturgies,  after  losing  their  original  force  and 
function,  derive  a  secondary  value  as  a  connecting  medium  between 
remote  periods  and  ages.  Their  associations  are  like  mistletoe  on 
aged  trees,  which  have  a  value  which  the  trees  do  not.  The  at- 
tempt to  create  a  modern  liturgy  is  e^ddence  of  bow  little  men 
understand  the  law  of  growth.  Liturgies  of  power  are  those 
which  have  in  them  the  voice  of  ages.  It  is  the  breath  of  tbe 
whole  church  that  breathes  through  them.  To  forsake  these,  and 
to  make  modern  liturgies  is  as  if  a  man  should  cut  down  from 
about  his  mansion  the  oaks  and  elms  that  had  grown  majestic 
through  hundreds  of  years,  and  then  attempt  to  imitate  their  shade 
and  grandeur  by  setting  out  starveling  Lombardy  poplars." 

"But,"  said  Judge  Bacon,  "you  ought  to  admit  that  a  Puritan 
cathedral  would  be  proper.  Its  structure  might  be  new,  but  its 
spirit,  whicb  according  to  you  is  the  essential  thing,  would  be  old 
enough.  It  would  be  far  older  than  Justinian.  It  would  be  as 
old  as  Moses.  The  Puritans  were  men  of  the  Old  Testament  more 
than  of  the  iSTew.  Their  writings  breathe  its  spirit,  employ  its 
language ;  and  their  laws  sought  to  imitate  the  old  Hebrew  code, 
and  in  some  instances  the  Levitical  laws  are  ludicrously  woven 
into  the  old  colony  legislation." 

"It  will  always  be  so,"  responded  Dr.  "Wentworth,  accepting 
the  new  direction  thus  suggested  for  the  conversation,  "with  men 
in  a  minority,  suffering  persecution  for  a  good  cause.  They  wUl 
take  to  the  Old  Testament  as  patriots  do  to  the  mountains  when 
oppressors  harry  the  land.  The  reason  is  obvious.  The  old 
prophets  were  grand  figures,  standing  almost  alone  against  a  back- 
ground of  cruelty  and  corruption,  both  in  faith  and  morals.  Their 
experience  breathes  in  the  psalms,  and  in  the  major  and  minor 


Villafje  Life  in  New  En  (/land.  325 

propliets.  Xo  mistake  is  greater  than  to  suppose  that  the  Books 
of  Prophecy  are  filled  with  prophesying,  or  that  the  special  pre- 
dictions constitute  the  cliief  value  of  these  undying  Scriptures. 
They  are  the  heart  journals  of  great  men,  almost  alone,  waging 
war  with  every  form  of  civil  and  social  iniquity.  They  reveal  all 
the  shades  of  fear,  doubt,  despondency,  incident  to  moral  conliict. 
They  reveal  Suffering  and  Consolation  as  no  drama  ever  did.  The 
great  truths  of  Natural  Justice  ;  the  absohite  faith  that  the  world 
was  organized  for  righteousness,  and  that  iniquity  is  sure  to  he  a 
losing  game  ;  that  the  Invisible  Power,  who  sits  silent  behind  the 
clouds  while  every  thing  seems  to  overwhelm  the  good  and  pro- 
mote the  bad,  is  nevertheless  awake,  aroused  and  terribly  in  earn- 
est for  truth  and  justice ;  and  that  he  seems  remiss  only  because 
Jehovah  works  in  larger  circles  than  those  in  which  men  work, 
and  brings  events  to  their  account  and  judgment  a  little  later  and 
lower  down  than  men  desire  and  expect.  These  are  those  ele- 
ments of  the  prophetic  books  that  will  always  make  them  the 
refuge  of  the  oppressed.  But  the  Puritan,  if  he  went  to  the  Old 
Testament  for  cpnsolation  and  strength,  certainly  did  not  find 
there  the  peculiar  intellectual  elements  which  marked  him.  The 
intellectual  contrast  between  the  Hebrew  and  the  Puritan  is  as 
great  as  that  between  Jerusalem  and  Athens.  The  Hebrew  was 
neither  an  analyst  nor  a  reasoner ;  the  Puritan  was  both.  Emo- 
tion is  the  staple  of  Hebrew  thought.  His  very  reasonings  were 
swells  of  moral  feeling.  In  Judea  it  was  feeling  that  fed  thought ; 
in  New  England  it  is  thought  that  produces  feeling." 

"  You  mean  that  ought  to  do  it,"  said  the  Judge.  "  I  wish  in 
my  soul  it  did !  It  was  a  poor  exchange  that  the  Puritan  made 
when  he  bargained  off  imagination  for  logic,  emotion  for  meta- 
physics, moral  consciousness  for  proof.  A  genuine  Yaukee  Puri- 
tan thinks  that  he  can  prove  any  thing.  He  would  address  an 
argument  to  each  letter  of  the  alphabet,  proving  that  A  is  A,  that 
B  is  B.  He  would  delight  to  hear  somebody  doubt  the  multipli- 
cation table,  that  he  might  prove  it.  I  am  tired  of  logic,  and  ar- 
gument, and  doctrine,  and  discussion.  The  fact  is.  Doctor,  since 
Tommy  Hey  wood  has  been  in  town,  I  have  taken  to  the  Episcopal 
Church,  where  every  thing  is  cut  and  dried,  and  the  service  is  so 
long  that  the  sermon  has  to  be  short.  I  have  serious  thoughts 
of  joining." 


826  Nonoood ;  or, 

"I  am  glad,  Judge,  to  learn  that  you  have  serious  thought 
about  any  thing  religious.  The  Xew  England  theologians  have 
not  been  poetic,  Edwards,  perhaps,  excepted ;  and  he  soon  re- 
pressed a  genius  which,  under  other  culture,  would  have  placed 
him  among  the  immortal  few.  Curiously  enough,  they  have  un- 
dervalued the  imagination,  and  sought  to  replace  it  with  solici 
reasonings.  I  must  admit  that,  at  some  period,  they  have  had  an 
almost  Pharisaic  pride  of  logic  and  pure  metaphysics.  But  in  spite 
of  their  exclusion  of  the  literary  forms  of  the  imagination,  they  have 
dealt  with  great  moral  truths  in  such  a  manner  that  the  imagina- 
tion of  their  people  has  been  powerfully  developed.  The  im- 
pression that  New  England  men  are  practical  and  shrewd,  but  not 
imaginative  or  aesthetic,  has  arisen  from  the  fact  that  peculiar  in- 
fluences prevented  the  development  of  imagination  in  the  du-ection 
of  poetry,  and  music,  or  of  the  fine  arts.  Puritan  influences  shut 
up  in  a  measure  these  channels.  Imagination  followed  the  lines 
of  speculation.  Instead  of  forming  itself  into  sound  and  physical 
forms,  it  inspired  systems  of  thought.^  The  poems  of  Dante  are 
not  more  complete  pictures  than  are  the  sermons  of  Edwards,  if 
you  drop  from  both  the  instrument  of  language,  and  compare 
simply  the  picture  which  is  left  in  the  mind.  The  vast  realm 
of  thought  traversed  by  IiTew  England  theology,  involving  the 
philosophy  of  the  human  mind,  the  nature  of  moral  government, 
and  so,  by  corollary,  of  human  governments — the  profound  inquiries 
into  cause  and  effect, — the  invisible  sphere  of  the  will, — the  rela- 
tions of  character  to  future  condition, — the  Future  itself,  its  eternal 
sovereign,  its  antithetic  kingdom,  like  night  over  against  the  day, — 
and  the  pressure  of  thought  toward  infinite  and  insoluble  problems 
might  have  been  expected  to  give  a  very  unpractical  result.  In 
fact,  however,  it  led  to  immense  fertility  and  to  a  practical 
wisdom. 

"In  a  greater  extent,  probably,  than  ever  before  was  the  whole 
population,  for  two  hundred  years,  educated  to  receive  a  copious, 
minute  and  immense  system  of  truth,  without  any  symbols,  with- 
out old  superstitions,  without  any  thing  for  the  eye  or  ear,  sustained 
purely  by  the  exercise  of  reason,  and  in  directions  where  the  reason 
depended  largely  upon  the  imagination.  In  other  lands,  the  popu- 
lar faith  rested  upon  an  order  of  men  hfted  into  splendid  authority. 
The  Xew  England  clergyman  was  a  plain  citizen,  utterly  disdain- 


Village  Life  in  New  Fmgland.  327 

mg  all  trappings.  Elsewhere,  cathedrals,  festive  days,  and  gorge- 
ous ceremonies  sustained  men's  belief.  It  is  hardlj  possible  to 
make  barrenness  more  bare  of  all  appliances  for  the  senses  than 
was  New  England.  Yet  there  arose  in  the  popular  mind  a  vast 
and  stately  system  of  truth,  covering  two  worlds." 

"  Take  breath.  Doctor,  let  us  see !  Elm  trees,  cathedrals,  pre- 
Kaphaelitism,  the  Old  and  New  Testament,  the  Puritan,  New 
England  clergymen,  and  New  England  theology !  I  put  it  to  you, 
as  a  humane  and  honest  physician,  whether  there  are  not  too 
many  medicines  for  one  bolus  ?  Yon  are  a  perfect  old  Druid,  and 
sit  under  your  tree  as  if  the  chief  end  of  man  was  to  talk  and  hear 
talking !  By  the  way,  your  elm  tree  ought  to  be  an  oak— that  is 
the  tree  of  piety  and  wisdom." 

"  By  no  means.  The  oak  Is  the  English  tree.  But  the  elm  is 
the  American  tree." 

"I  suspect  you  are  led  astray  this  time.  Doctor,"  said  Judge 
Bacon,  "because  you  own  so  wonderful  a  tree.  Every  body 
praises  his  own.  The  pine  tree  is  the  symbol  of  New  England. 
It  is  the  tree  of  liberty,  flourishing  as  liberty  always  has,  among 
the  hills  and  mountains — tough  and  hardy,  deriving  nourishment 
from  the  poorest  soils  and  enduring  the  severest  winters,  without 
losing  its  foliage,  fightmg  winter  storais  with  its  banner  all  un- 
folded !  The  only  tree  fit  to  represent  our  liberty-loving  people 
is  the  one  that  is  as  green  in  winter  as  in  summer.  There  !  what 
do  you  say  to  that  as  a  specimen  of  discourse  in  your  own  vein  ?  " 

"  It  is  thoroughly  well  said,"  replied  Wentworth,  "  and  if  we 
were  at  hberty  now  to  select  the  tree  of  Liberty,  undoubtedly  that 
would  be  it.  But  it  has  been  done  for  us.  The  elm  is  historic. 
It  is  identified  not  only  with  American  ideas  and  men,  but  with 
the  great  struggles  of  liberty.  The  Pittsfield  elm,  now  a  mere 
wreck,^was  a  rallying  point  in  our  Eevolution,  as  it  had  been  be- 
fore among  the  aborigines.  What  shall  we  say  of  the  elms  in 
Springfield,  in  Hadley,  in  Hatfield,  which  have  played  a  part  in 
colonial  history  ?  And  what  of  that  famous  Boston  Common  Elm, 
which  is  to  Massachusetts  what  the  Charter  Oak  was  to  Connect- 
icut?" 

"  Stop— stop.     Now  you  are  on  my  ground.     The  elm  on  the 
Boston  Common  was  not  the  Charter  Oak  of  Massachusetts.     It 
was  another  elm  tree  which  you  have  probably  forgotten.    I  mean 
15 


\ 


328  '  Norwood ;  or, 

the  old  elm  that  stood  on  the  corner  of  Essex  and  Medway  streets 
in  Boston,  now  Essex  and  "Washington  streets.  Planted  in  1646, 
it  was  more  than  a  hundred  years  old  when  the  pre-revolutionary 
excitements  were  taking  place  in  Boston.  I  don't  beheve  there 
was  ever  a  city  in  the  world  where  the  men  in  authority  had  such 
hard  work  in  putting  a  yoke  on  its  people,  as  Boston.  It  was 
always  a  famous  talking  place.  I  can  imagine  a  governor's  opinion 
of  such  men  as  Sam  Adams  and  old  John  Adams  and  their  set. 
Let  me  see — didn't  you  come  from  Boston,  Doctor?  "Well,  no 
matter.  One  bright  morning,  when  the  sun  rose,  a  marvel  ap- 
peared. In  the  night  the  dew,  or  Puck,  had  shaped  in  golden  let- 
ters and  nailed  with  a  spike  upon  the  elm,  '  Tree  of  Liberty .''  The 
offence  was  remembered,  and  in  1775  the  British  soldiers  cut  down 
the  dangerous  tree." 

"  Thank  you.  Judge.  If  any  tree  should  be  adopted  as  the  na- 
tional symbol,  it  is  the  American  elm — the  historic  '  Tree  of 
Liberty^  " 

"  I  forgot  to  say,"  said  the  Judge,  with  a  knowing  look,  "  what 
every  true  Yankee  will  be  delighted  to  learn,  that  the  tree  cut  up 
into  fourteen  cords  of  wood !  Only  imagine  what  a  fortune  that 
would  be,  if  all  this  were  to-day  in  the  hands  of  some  honest 
farmer.  He  would  fiU  the  land  with  souvenirs,  and  make  his  for- 
tune to  boot.  For  we  should  have  the  miracle  of  the  oil  and  meal 
over  again.  The  wood  would  never  give  out.  It  would  grow  on 
his  hands  faster  than  ever  it  did  on  its  own  roots." 

"  We  are  agreed,  then,  the  elm  is  the  Tree  of  Liberty.  It  is 
the  National  Tree !  " 

The  sun  went  down.  Pete  Sawmill  was  busy  passing  from  the 
kitchen  to  the  table,  spread  in  an  adjoining  space  among  evergreen 
trees.  The  company  broke  up  and  repaired  thither  for  tea.  Seats 
were  arranged  in  nooks  and  coverts,  among  the  shrubbery,  and 
friends  formed  into  groups  here  and  there,  in  the  most  uncon- 
strained liberty.  Eose  flitted  hither  and  thither  with  hospitable 
attentions,  seeming  to  take  no  part  for  herself  except  the  jDleasure 
of  serving.  So  Heywood  found  to  his  chagrin.  An  evil  fate 
hampered  him  all  the  evening.  Nothing  fell  out  fortunately  ;  and 
he  returned  home  under  a  cloud.     Alice  remained  for  the  night. 

"Why,  Alice,"  said  Eose,  when  they  had  repaired  to  their 
rooms,  "  what  a  woman  of  society  you  have  become  !     You  used 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  329 

to  admire  mj  freedom  iu  company.     It  is  now  my  turn  to  envy 
jrou.    I  never  saw  you  so  brilliant." 

Alice  smiled.  Yet  the  expression  of  her  face  was  not  altogether 
of  pleasm-e.  As  clouds  coming  and  going,  in  a  bright  moonlight 
evening,  seem  to  shade  or  brighten  the  lawn,  so  in  alternation 
pleasing  thoughts  and  sad  ones  cast  their  reflections  upon  Alice^ 
fece. 


r 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

NTJlTLffG — ITS    JOYS   AXD    DISASTEES. 

"WnEX  Autumn  days  come,  Nature,  like  a  retired  merchant, 
changes  its  manner — from  tlirift  and  bustling  industry  to  languid 
leisure  and  to  ostentatious  luxury.  The  sun  rises  later  and  sets 
earlier  than  when  it  had  all  the  summer  crops  on  hand  and  was 
playing  universal  husbandman.  There  is  no  nest-huilding  now,  and 
no  bird-singing, — which  is  a  purely  domestic  arrangement,  designed 
on  the  birds'  part  to  keep  peace  in  the  family  while  the  children 
are  being  raised,  and  laid  aside  as  soon  as  the  young  birds  are  off 
their  hands.  Mornings  come  fleeced  in  mists,  which  hang  over 
streams  and  low,  moist  places.  The  sun  plays  with  them,  but  they 
perish  in  his  ai-ms.  A  few  belated  flowers  yet  keep  watch,  but 
chiefly  the  asters,  which  fringe  the  fields,  star  the  edges  of  forests, 
and,  like  a  late-comer  at  a  feast,  seem  bent  upon  making  up  lost 
time.  At  night,  crickets  and  katy-dids  scrape  their  shrill  viols, 
and  fill  the  air  with  stridulous  music.  Over  all  the  shrinking  fields, 
the  trees  lift  up  their  gorgeous  foliage,  and,  like  those  who  wait  for 
the  marriage-bell  and  the  bridegroom,  they  shine  out  in  glorious 
apparel. 

The  hills,  forest-clad,  are  become  the  Lord's  younger  sons,  and, 
like  Joseph,  they  are  dressed  in  a  coat  of  many  colors.  October 
days,  short  between  horizons,  reach  higher  into  the  vault  than  any 
days  of  the  year ;  and  through  them  the  season  seems  to  look  with 
softened  sadness,  as  one  who,  in  the  calm  of  age,  meditates  on  all 
the  mistakes  of  his  past  life  and  solemnly  thinks  upon  the  advanc- 
ing future.  Along  the  fence  rows,  where  seeds  and  late  berries 
may  be  found,  birds  hop  sUently,  as  if  ashamed  to  be  seen.  Soon 
they  will  change  their  solitary  ways  and  collect  in  flocks.  To-day, 
the  fields  will  swarm  with  them  ;  to-morrow,  there  will  not  be  one 
left,  and  they  will  be  picking  their  food  many  degrees  of  latitude 
south. 

In  the  gay  sadness  of  autumn,  Barton  Cathcart,  now  released 
from  his  school,  wandered  about  with  his  gun.  Sometimes  he 
brought  home  from  the  hills  his  bag  full  of  squu-rels,  and  some- 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  331 

times  from  the  bosky  coverts  he  secured  many  brace  of  partridges 
At  other  times,  he  wandered  all  day  without  once  firing  his  gun. 

Barton  loved  field  sports,  yet  not  so  keenly  that  he  chased 
through  the  woods  and  coverts  without  observation.  He  stopped 
to  trace  the  lines  of  lichen  on  stones,  or  the  exquisite  mosses  in 
damp  and  shaded  nooks.  Many  squirrels  ran  and  hid  while  he 
stood  under  the  yellow-leaved  nut  trees  admiring  the  russet  hicko- 
ries, the  brilliant  maples,  scarlet,  pink  and  yellow.  He  remem- 
bered what  Dr.  Wentworth  had  said  of  cathedrals,  and  stretched 
on  a  dry  knoll,  he  sometimes  lay  for  a  long  time  looking  up  into 
the  arched  trees,  tracing  imaginary  groinings,  or  listening  to  the 
low  sounds  of  the  winds  that  chanted  through  the  trees,  and  cast 
down  to  the  ground  multitudes  of  yellow  leaves,  on  which  they  had 
just  been  playing.  So  silent  and  so  immovable  did  he  lie,  and  so 
long,  that  the  squirrels  forgot  to  be  shy,  descended  to  the  ground 
and  played  their  nimble  pranks  before  him,  or  sprung  from  branch 
to  branch  overhead,  barking  and  chattering  in  full  security.  Ah, 
these  great  October  days! — October  woods ! — October  musings! 

It  was  his  purpose,  in  November,  to  repair  to  Cambridge  to 
attend  a  course  of  lectures  upon  law. 

Meanwhile,  he  was  at  home  again, — living  over,  as  in  a  gentle 
trance,  the  scenes  of  his  boyhood,  visiting  the  haunts  which  his 
early  experience  had  made  dear  to  him.  He  recalled  the  frolics 
which  Eose  and  Alice  had  so  often  had  around  the  old  farm- 
house. 

But  when  he  thought  of  his  sister  now,  and  of  Miss  Wentworth, 
these  memories  seemed  like  some  fairy  tale,  read  in  a  book,  rather 
than  an  actual  history  in  which  he  himself  had  been  a  living 
actor. 

But  young  Cathcart's  mood  was  not  wholly  a  sentimental  sym- 
pathy with  the  changing  year,  the  shortening  days,  the  flight  of 
birds  and  the  decay  of  flowers.  He  had  not  been  unobservant  of 
his  friend's  demeanor.  He  fancied  that  he  perceived  in  Rose  Went- 
worth  a  growing  pleasure  in  Heywood's  attentions.  He  resisted 
the  impression  stoutly.  He  cast  it  out  with  a  resolute  effort.  It 
returned  again.  When  the  mind  is  ill  at  ease  and  restless,  a  for- 
bidden thought,  in  spite  of  all  its  efforts,  will  play  about  it  as  at 
night  a  moth  whirls  about  a  lamp ;  and,  like  this  foolish  moth- 
miller,  the  more  it  is  hurt  by  the  flame  through  which  it  dashes, 


332  Nonvood ;  or, 

the  more  irresistible  seems  the  attraction,  until  singed,  maimed 
and  sore,  the  poor  insect  lies  crumpled  up  beneath  the  light  which 
lured  it  to  its  destruction. 

It  is  not  to  be  imagined  that  Cathcart  had  for  the  several  years 
past  lived  in  an  unbroken  dream  of  hope,  while  at  the  same  time 
he  had  taken  no  direct  steps  to  secure  his  position  in  Miss  "Went- 
worth's  regard. 

Until  he  was  established  in  life,  or  had  a  near  prospect  of  it,  he 
did  not  deem  it  honorable,  certainly  not  wise,  to  disclose  to  Miss 
Wentworth  the  secret  hope  of  his  life.  A  more  impulsive  and  less 
reticent  nature  could  scarcely  have  met  the  object  of  his  supreme 
affection  from  week  to  week  without  disclosing  his  feelings.  Some 
moment  of  unguarded  enthusiasm  would  be  likely  to  draw  forth 
the  confession.  Some  eager  and  supplicating  glance  would  be 
likely  to  betray  what  the  tongue  faltered  to  tell.  Even  in  a  na- 
ture as  self-restrained  and  silent  as  Barton  Cathcart's,  this  long 
probation  must  have  ended  itself  in  some  unexpected  disclosure, 
had  he  not  marked  out  for  himself  a  clear  line  and  followed  it  with 
scrupulous  fidelity.  He  had  already  learned  an  invaluable  secret, 
that  one-half  of  the  troubles  of  life  may  be  prevented,  and  of  the 
troubles  that  arise  one-half  may  be  alleviated,  by  occupation.  He 
had  given  to  his  school  an  unstinted  measure  of  his  time  and 
thought ;  but,  whatever  time  could  be  wrung  from  sleep  and 
amusement,  compatible  with  health,  he  bestowed  upon  the  study 
of  law.  But  this  school  was  ended.  His  legal  preparation  was 
already  far  beyond  what  has  been  found  sufficient  to  set  up  many 
a  successful  lawyer.  But  it  was  not  enough  for  him  barely  to  suc- 
ceed. After  another  year  spent  at  Cambridge  he  hoped  to  have 
laid  a  foundation  on  which  he  could  build  for  Ufe.  "When,  there- 
fore, during  this  summer,  he  had  noticed  Hey  wood's  increasing  in- 
terest in  Dr.  Wentworth's  family,  he  could  not  forbear  uneasiness. 
The  matter  was  not  helped  by  Tommy  Taft's  affectionate  solici- 
tude. 

"Look  here.  Barton,  what  is  your  opinion  of  that  southern  fel- 
ler that's  come  to  live  at  Chandler's  ? " 

"My  opinion,  Tommy,  is  very  favorable.  He  is  a  perfect  gen- 
tleman and  an  honorable  man.    I  think  very  highly  of  him." 

"  Well,  I  s'posed  so  by  the  way  you  and  he  went  round  to- 
gether.   They  say  he's  goin'  to  get  Chandler's  money.    I've  no 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  333 

objection.  Mrs.  Chandler's  a  mighty  nice  woman ;  but  hc^ — Lord, 
Barton,  lie's  nothin'  but  a  needle  pullin'  a  gold  thread  after  it ;  the 
needle  ain't  a  mite  fatter  for  all  it  does.  But  I  guess  that  southern 
feller  wants  a  leetle  more'n  money." 

"  I  should  hope  so,  Tommy.  Money  is  useful  in  its  way ;  but  it 
takes  more  than  that  to  make  a  man." 

"Sartainl  But  some  folks  thinks  they  have  the  right  to  the 
best  of  every  thing,  jest  because  they've  got  money.  Now,  for  my 
part,  I  don't  b'lieve  that  southern  feller  goes  down  to  Dr.  "Went- 
worth  to  git  pills.  If  he's  sick  as  often  as  he  goes  there,  then  it's 
a  sort  of  aUin'  that  doctor-stuff  ain't  likely  to  cure !  " 

Barton  knew  that  Tommy  Taft's  judgments  of  affairs  were  sel- 
dom mistaken,  and  these  hints  fell  in  with  his  own  fears.  Yet  he 
had  no  wish  to  make  Tommy  a  confidant  of  his  hopes  and  fears. 
The  color  came  slightly  to  his  cheek,  and  he  was  silent. 

"  It's  my  opinion  that  Miss  Rose  knows  who  she  likes,"  added 
Tommy,  sententiously,  at  the  same  time  nodding  his  head  corner- 
■(^ise  several  times  at  the  ground,  as  if  the  grass  had  disputed  him. 

"  I  presume  she  does,"  said  Barton.  "  Most  rational  people  do." 

"  There  was  that  Boston  feller  that  was  here  two  or  three  sum- 
mers, I  could  have  told  him  from  the  fust  that  he  couldn't  catch 
that  bird.  Why,  you  see,  I  watched  'em  pretty  close  at  fust,  but 
after  a  little  while  I  let  'em  swing.  I  seed  that  she  looked  down 
on  him;  and  I'm  thinkin'  Miss  Rose  won't  choose  below  her." 

Barton  did  rot  care  to  prolong  the  conversation  with  Tommy 
Taft ;  but,  except  by  an  abrupt  departure,  he  could  not  easily  stop 
him.  The  moment  that  any  one  showed  an  anxiety  to  avoid  any 
topic,  Tommy  seized  upon  it  with  the  avidity  of  a  terrier,  and 
raced  it  and  chased  it  to  the  uttermost.     Tommy  resumed : 

"  I  kinder  think  it's  another  thing  with  this  southern  feller ;  " 
for  Tommy  would  never  call  him  by  his  proper  name.  "  I've  seen 
'em  a  good  deal  more'n  they  think,  and  I've  noticed  that  she  sort 
o'  holds  back  and  don't  look  at  him  so  straight  and  honest-like 
as  she  does  to  other  folks.  And  she  gives  him  a  chance,  too ;  and 
he's  there  almost  every  day  on  one  arrant  or  another.  To  be  sure, 
it's  a  great  place  to  go  to,  and  every  body  is  to  hum  there ;  but, 
then,"  said  Tommy,  with  a  knowing  wink,  "there's  a  difference, 
you  know.  If  she  ain't  about  the  best  pleased  with  him  of  any 
feller  that's  come  along,  then  all  signs  fail,  that's  all." 


334  Norwood ;  or. 

And  Tommj  renewed  bis  bows  at  tbe  ground  in  the  most 
solemn  and  emphatic  manner. 

Every  word  was  a  confirmation  of  Barton  Cathcart's  fears. 
They  irritated  him  like  the  spines  of  nettles. 

"  "Well,  Tommy,  I  presume  it's  her  own  business.  If  she's  suited 
I  suppose  we  ought  to  be." 

Tommy  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  and  turning  his 
face  directly  on  Barton,  without  any  sting  in  his  tone  or  banter  in 
his  manner,  said : 

"  Barton,  my  boy,  I've  know'd  you  ever  since  you  was  so  high. 
I  took  to  you  naterally.  I've  jest  been  prouder  of  you  than  I  ever 
was  of  any  thing  on  ship  or  shore ;  and  if  I  could  see  you  married 
to  Eose,  I  wouldn't  care  a  wink  if  I  didn't  live  an  hour  afterward. 
'Tain't  no  use,  boy,  for  you  and  me  to  be  coverin'  up  things.  I 
know  ye  better'n  you  do  yourself.  Let  me  tell  ye,  you  keep  too 
shet  up.  There's  a  heap  of  things  in  you  that  you'd  do  better  to 
git  out.  What  sort  of  a  room  is't  where  the  fire  hain't  any  chim- 
ney? l^ow  it's  my  opinion  that  you  are  smoked  up  inside  with 
thoughts  and  feelins,  jes'  'cause  you've  no  vent  to  let  the  stuff  out. 
And  though  Tommy  is  a  one-legged  old  sinner,  the  man's  not  alive 
that  dare  say  he  ever  forgot  his  friend." 

Barton  needed  no  assurance  of  the  old  man's  fidelity.  Although 
he  knew  that  his  unbounded  audacity  would  lead  him  to  thrust  in 
his  remarks  upon  any  man's  business  for  the  mere  pleasure  which  he 
seemed  to  take  in  the  exercise  of  his  shrewdness,  yet,  in  his  own 
case,  Barton  knew  the  real  and  almost  romantic  affection  which 
old  Tommy  bore  to  him.  He  was  also  affected  by  the  fact  that 
the  old  man,  hanging  on  the  skirts  of  society,  poor,  and  now  grow- 
ing every  year  more  and  more  feeble,  had  evidently  been  watching 
for  his  interest,  during  years  of  absence,  with  paternal  fidelity. 
Besides  all  this,  a  proud  and  sensitive  nature  finds  it  far  easier, 
often,  to  speak  confidingly  to  one  in  a  station  below  him  than  to 
an  equal  or  a  superior. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  influences  moving  him,  Barton 
felt  that  it  would  be  a  great  relief  to  lean  on  another's  judgment. 
•     "  Well,  Uncle  Tommy,  what  would  you  do  if  you  were  in  my 
plao3?" 

"  Now  that's  sensible  like.  Barton,  my  boy.  I'd  go  right  to 
that  fellow,  and  ask  him  plump  what  he's  after.   If  he's  just  fooliu 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  335 

round  for  the  fun  on't,  be  ought  to  understand  that  there's  other 
folks  lives  in  this  world  as  well  as  him.  And  if  he  is  in  'arnest,  why, 
then,  the  woman  has  got  to  choose  between  ye,  that's  all." 

"  I'll  do  it,  by  heavens !  "  said  Barton,  with  intense  earnestness 
"  I've  lost  too  much  time  already." 

"That's  it, — you're  right  now."  Then,  with  a  half  relapse 
into  his  ordinary  teasing  manner.  Tommy  added  :  "  It's  surprisin' 
how  we  take  advice  that  travels  the  same  way  we  do !  It's  like 
hittin'  a  ball  the  same  way  it's  rollin'  a'ready." 

The  best  advice  in  the  world  may  be  ruined  in  the  execution. 
And  the  execution  of  a  delicate  task  depends  chiefly  on  the  fine 
condition  of  a  man's  faculties.  On  some  days  the  mind  comes  up 
out  of  sleep,  like  the  sun  in  a  clear  October  morning.  There  is 
neither  cloud  nor  haze.  The  thoughts  and  feelings  move  in  unison, 
and  the  tongue,  touched  from  within,  like  a  magnet,  draws  to  itself 
fitting  words  and  sentences.  It  no  longer  moves  like  a  tugging 
plough,  heavily  and  slowly,  but  touches  lightly  and  glances  from 
topic  to  topic  as  sunlight  from  dew  drop  to  dew  drop. 

Then  come  the  cloudy  days.  Ill-assorted  thoughts  procure  for 
themselves  a  disagreeable  utterance.  "We  spoil  whatever  we  touch. 
We  do  nothing  lightly,  deftly,  wisely.  The  astronomer  must  defer 
his  observations  when  clouds  are  in  the  sky.  In  some  of  the 
more  delicate  operations  of  mechanics,  the  workman  will  not 
touch  a  tool  on  days  when,  as  he  says,  "  his  hand  is  dead."  "What 
lawyer  has  not  lost  cases  because  he  came  before  the  court  and 
jury  with  his  head  wearied  and  his  whole  body  jaded  by  long- 
continued  and  exhausting  excitements  ?  "What  doctor  has  not  lost 
patients  by  being  called,  after  sleepless  nights,  with  a  stupid  brain, 
to  a  case  requiring  insight,  precision,  and  instant  action  ?  "What  min- 
ister has  not  spoiled  a  good  subject  by  a  poor  sermon,  because  the 
Sabbath  had  come  round  and  he  must  preach,  in  spite  of  catarrh  and 
influenza?  What  fisherman  has  not  lost  his  trout  by  an  unskilful 
splash,  when  he  meant  delicately  to  skim  the  surface  with  the 
likeness  of  a  flitting,  fluttering  fly  ? 

Enough.  Barton  slept  little  after  this  interview  with  Tommy 
Taffc.  When  he  awaked,  he  woke  with  only  half  of  hunself,  and 
that  the  poorest  part.  But  the  impulse  of  the  night  before  re- 
mained. 

Barton  left  Tommy  Taft  resolved  to  see  Hey  wood  and  to  have 
15* 


336  Norwood ;  or, 

an  understanding  with  him.  He  went  to  Mr.  Chandler's  house. 
But  akeady  in  his  walk  thither  his  purpose  was  somewhat  shaken. 
For,  as  he  reflected  how  he  would  break  the  matter  to  his  friend, 
he  began  to  see  so  many  difficulties  that  his  purpose  wavered. 
"  Shall  I  ask  him  what  his  intentions  are  toward  Miss  Wentworth? 
What  if  he  should  reply  by  asking  me  on  whose  authority  I  in- 
quire ?  She  has  a  father  and  mother ;  have  they  deputed  me 
to  watch  over  their  daughter's  welfare  ?  Or  he  may  say,  '  Are 
you  an  accepted  suitor  of  Miss  Eose  ?  If  not,  on  what  grounds 
do  yon  interfere  ? '  What  business  have  I  at  any  rate  to  meddle 
with  Hey  wood's  aftair  in  this  matter  ?  There  is  nothing  in  my 
relations  to  Rose  which  makes  it  improper  for  any  other  gentle- 
man to  solicit  her  affection.  "WLat  would  Rose  think  if  she  knew 
that  I  had  interrogated  Hey  wood  about  his  affection  for  her  ?  She 
would  have  a  just  reason  for  being  angry  with  me.  It  would  be 
an  impertinence.  I  could  never  look  her  in  the  face  afterward  if 
she  knew  it. " 

So  reasoning,  he  would  have  gone  past,  without  calling,  but 
Hey  wood  saw  him,  and  called  out : 

"Barton,  come  in!  "Where  do  you  keep  yourself  lately? 
Are  you  hidden  in  the  woods,  or  have  you  gone  home  to  live  like 
a  hermit?  What  are  you  doing  nowadays!  Since  your  school 
was  given  up  I  hardly  see  you  any  more.  By  the  way,  what  a 
splendid  fellow  the  doctor  is !  But  he  ought  to  be  a  professor  in 
some  college,  where  talking  is  the  proper  business.  At  his  house 
I  think  there  is  a  little  too  much  of  it." 

"I've  noticed,  though,  that  he  never  talks  without  listeners." 

"  That's  the  mischief  of  it.  We  young  folks  want  a  good  time. 
But  as  soon  as  they  hear  him  speaking,  off  goes  Rose,  and  off  goes 
every  body,  and  we  have  to  go  too.  How  did  you  enjoy  the  other 
evening? " 

"  Not  much — I  was  not  in  good  trim.  Are  you  going  to  the 
grand  nutting  party  next  v/eek?  " 

"  Of  course  I  am.  Miss  Rose  has  laid  injunctions  upon  all  her 
friends.  Let  all  the  squirrels  take  notice  I  Not  a  nut  do  we  mean 
to  leave  behind  us,  and  any  winter  stores  which  they  may  desire 
should  be  put  up  immediately  !  " 

Barton,  who  had  started  rather  fiercely  on  his  errand,  returned 
with  a  sense  of  having  escaped  a  great  blunder. 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  337 

"  This  comes,"  said  lie  to  himself,  "  of  acticg  without  reflection. 
My  own  way  is  the  best,  after  all.  I  never  talk  over  my  feelinga 
with  any  one,  and  act  upon  his  suggestion,  without  regretting  it 
afterward.  I  will  keep  my  own  counsels,  and  act  upon  my  own 
proper  judgment,  and  especially,  I  do  not  think  I  shall  go  to  Tommy 

Taft  again.     Fool  that  I  was  to  let  him  see after  all,  he  knew 

it  before.  A  strange  old  man ! — full  of  experience  and  of  wisdom, 
of  which  he  makes  playthings — never  uses  them  soberly  for  hira- 
6<>lf.  I  cannot  hide  any  thing  from  him.  But  I  can  keep  him 
silent.— Shall  I  speak  with  my  mother  ?  Why  should  I  ?  What 
advice  can  she  give  me  ?  She  knows  my  mind  already.  It  will 
only  be  anothei*  cloud  on  her  shaded  path.  I  always  have  carried 
my  own  troubles  in  silence,  and  why  not  now  ?  If  God  leavens 
human  thoughts  and  purposes  with  an  element  of  his  own  wisdom, 
aU  will  come  right." 

Continuous  and  intense  excitement  of  feeling  works  a  morbid 
physical  condition  of  the  brain.  It  becomes  at  once  fertile  and 
poor.  It  pours  out  an  endless  abundance  of  thought  and  emotion, 
but  without  variety  or  control.  The  same  feeling  rises  and  breaks, 
only  to  bubble  up  again,  pass  through  the  same  course,  to  be  fol- 
lowed a  hundred  times  by  the  same  process.  Over  and  over  again 
a  thought  traverses  a  small  circle,  coming  back  to  its  starting 
place,  and  moving  a  narrow  round,  until  the  mind  seems  like  a 
clock,  whose  weights  pull  at  the  wheels,  and  move  the  hands  round 
and  round  the  dial,  day  and  night,  with  perpetual  iteration. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Barton  Cathcart  sought  to  control  his  mind, 
so  long  as  he  remained  at  home,  with  the  leisure  of  vacation  and 
in  the  presence  of  those  objects  which  wrought  such  disturbance 
to  his  thoughts. 

His  father  had  long  wished  Barton  to  visit  several  of  the  re- 
mote western  States,  where  he  had  invested  some  money  in  land, 
to  examine  the  various  tracts,  ascertain  their  quality,  position  and 
prospects,  arrange  for  the  proper  settlement  of  taxes,  and,  in  one 
or  two  instances,  redeem  some  small  parcels  which  had,  through 
the  neglect  of  agents,  been  sold  for  taxes. 

All  day  long  after  seeing  Heywood  ho  had  turned  his  affairs 
over  and  over  in  his  mind,  till  he  was  weary  of  them,  of  himself, 
and  of  life.  But  all  night  ho  repeated  the  process,  whether 
dreaming;  or  waking.     As  the  next  day  dawned.  Barton  awoke 


338  Norwood ;  or, 

from  a  short  sleep  by  hearing  some  one  say,  "  Go  West."  At  auj 
rate,  he  thought  he  heard  the  sentence,  though  on  sprmgmg  up 
no  one  was  present.  But  the  impression  was  strong  that  he  had 
heard  a  real  voice.  The  project  stood  out  before  him  with  attrac- 
tive features.  It  would  break  up  his  nervous  irritation,  give  him 
an  opportunity  of  seeing  something  of  his  native  land,  and  satisfy 
that  love  of  novelty  and  adventure  which  every  young  man  of 
mettle  is  apt  to  have. 

Before  he  had  fairly  dressed  himself,  Barton  had  settled  the 
matter.  When  his  father  came  in  to  breakfast,  Barton  said  with 
some  suddenness : 

"  Father,  I  am  going  out  west,  and  if  you  will  make  out  my 
instructions,  I  will  attend  to  your  business." 

Before  sundown  every  thing  was  prepared,  and  early  on  the 
next  day  Barton  was  on  his  way  to  the  far  west. 

Meanwhile,  the  arrangements  had  been  made  for  a  grand  nut- 
ting expedition  on  the  week  succeeding  Barton's  departure.  The 
suddenness  of  his  start  took  every  one  by  ourprise.  Why  did  he 
go  before  the  picnic  ?  Why  did  he  not  at  least  say  good-bye. 
What  had  happened,  or  was  about  to  happen,  that  he  should  dis- 
appear so  mysteriously? 

But,  like  all  other  minor  matters  in  life,  it  was  a  day's  wonder, 
and  then  sank  and  was  forgotten,  especially  when  the  Sabbath  was 
passed  and  Tuesday  was  set  for  the  excursion.  The  region  selected 
for  the  expedition  lay  a  mile  or  two  beyond  'Biah  Cathcart's, 
where  long  strips  of  chestnut  woods  cove:red  a  line  of  low  hills, 
or  skirted  down  their  sides.  Near  the  c^'^ntre  of  this  range  of 
hills,  bnt  half  a  mile  back,  was  a  ravine,  one  of  the  most  roman- 
tic and  picturesque  places  in  the  region,  and  not  the  less  attractive 
to  many  because  its  pools  of  clear,  cool  water  were  filled  with 
trout.  Not  far  fi'om  the  opening  of  this  ravine  the  dinner  was  to 
be  eaten;  and  all  the  baskets  and  packages  pertaining  thereto 
were  put  under  charge  of  Hiram  Beers,  who  also  had  a  general 
oversight  of  all  the  "  critters,"  as  Deacon  Marble  styled  the 
horses.  This  annual  nutting  day  was  in  no  respect  ecclesiastical. 
It  was  not  marked  down  in  the  calendar.  ISTo  sin  was  imputed 
for  the  neglect  of  it.  Yet,  with  occasional  exceptions,  it  had  for 
many  years  been  a  kind  of  parish  reunion.  Th<^  minister,  the 
d£acons,  the  trustees,  the  staid  and  dignified  old  ?>?<^wl?eri!  were 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  339 

expected  to  turn  out  to  renew  their  youth  and  gallantries- 
and  even  more  than  on  Thanksgiving  Day  certain  antics  and  frivoli- 
ties were  permitted  among  church  members,  which  on  any  other 
occasion,  would  have  savored  of  a  levity  that  Aunt  Polly  Marble 
would  have  witnessed  with  severe  disapprobation. 

Early  on  that  mornmg  there  began  to  wend  along  the  road 
families  of  young  and  old,  parties  of  young  men  and  maidens,  a 
few  on  horseback,  many  in  wagons  which  were  built  for  harvest, 
but,  by  a  little  "  slicking  up,"  served  to  carry  parties  to  fishing 
excursions,  to  huskings,  and  to  nutting  parties.  Farmer  Cathcart 
was  already  waiting— his  handsome  team  hitched  at  the  post,  his 
wife  Rachel  putting  in  the  last  little  delicacies  for  the  dinner. 
One  after  another  of  his  old  friends  passed  by,  cheerily  saluting 
him— some  with  a  hearty  good-morning,  some  with  an  exhortation 
to  make  haste,  and  one  or  two  with  specimens  of  homely  wit,  the 
more  rehshful  because  well  seasoned  and  often  used. 

Hiram  Beers,  of  course,  shone  glorious  with  a  span  of  Black- 
Hawk  Morgan  horses,  for  which  "  a  New  York  gentleman  said 
that  if  he  had  them  in  the  city  he  could  get  a  thousand  dollars !  " 
Of  course  this  thousand-dollar  team  was  worthily  employed  in 
bringing  Dr.  Wentworth's  family,— a  portion  of  them  at  any  rate, 
—the  doctor  and  his  wife,  Eose  and  Agate  Bissell,  while  the 
residue  followed  in  another  vehicle  drawn  by  the  doctor's  own 
horses,  under  the  direction  of  Pete  Sawmill,  who  on  such  occa- 
sions felt  his  own  superiority  over  all  the  rest  of  mankind. 

Dr.  Buell  rode  in  his  favorite  chaise,  carrying  with  him  a 
neighboring  minister  who  had  preached  for  him  on  Sunday,  and 
with  whom  he  had  sat  up  half  of  Sunday  night  discussing  certain 
recondite  points  of  theology  on  which  said  brother  had  shown  a 
dangerous  laxity  of  opinion. 

Behind  him  came  Deacon  Trowbridge,  to  whom  a  good  con- 
science and  a  good  digestion,  well  exercised,  had  given  such  ad- 
mirable proportions  that  all  men  wondered  how  he  and  his  wife, 
who  was  not  a  whit  less  blessed  than  her  husband,  could  sit  in 
one  seat,  or  how  one  ordinary  horse  could  draw  them  I 
Hiram  kept  up  a  running  fire  as  they  severally  arrived. 
"  Good  mornin',  Doctor  Buell !  drive  in  here — that's  a  good 
hitchin'  spot.  Don't  stop  now.  I'll  take  the  darlin'  out  of  the 
thills,  and  see  that  he's  fastened  all  right.    You'd  better  go  on  and 


340  Norwood ;  or, 

keep  the  deacons  in  order.  There's  no  tellin',  when  a  horse  or  a 
deacon  gits  loose  in  a  big  pasture,  what  he'll  do.  I've  known  old 
horses  break  their  necks  tryin'  to  race  and  jump  as  the  young 
colts  do." 

Next  came  up  Deacon  Trowbridge. 

"Bless  me,  Deacon! — Good  morning,  marm! — if  I'm  not  glad 
to  see  you !  We've  been  waitin'^  for  some  slim  fellow  like  you  to 
climb  the  trees  and  shake  off  the  chestnuts.  The  boys  all  look  to 
you,  Deacon,  for  an  example !  " 

The  good-natured  and  fat  deacon  smiled,  and  even  essayed  a 
faint  joke  : 

"  Yes,  Hiram,  you'll  see  the  nuts  fly,  if  I  only  get  up  into  them 
tree-tops !  " 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I'll  bet  on  you  and  the  squirrels !  "  said  Hiram, 
who  could  spare  but  a  word  or  two  on  each  party,  and  already 
had  turned  to  a  new  comer,  leaving  Deacon  Trowbridge  standing 
with  an  answer  in  his  mouth,  in  a  waiting  posture,  as  if  he  could 
not  afford  to  lose  a  good  thing. 

And  we  think  so  too,  and  will  present  it  for  him.  The  deacon 
was  waiting  to  say : 

"  If  I  get  0712.  squirrel,  Hiram,  he'll  not  be  worth  much !  " 

There  is  an  unending  charm  that  goes  with  the  supple  gayeties 
of  the  young.  But  another  interest,  scarcely  less,  though  of  a  differ- 
ent kind,  attends  the  occasional  outbreak  of  youthful  frolics  among 
the  old.  Here  were  the  yeUow  woods  full  of  happy  people; 
and,  among  them,  many  old  men  and  women  of  stern  morals  and 
severe  manner  of  life, — most  of  them  stiffened  with  hard  labor, 
and  not  more  than  once  or  twice  in  a  year  seeking  pleasure  or 
recreation  for  their  own  sakes.  Many,  many  years  it  is  since  they 
sprang  into  the  trees  as  do  those  nimble  youngsters  who  are  mak- 
ing the  chestnuts  rattle  from  the  topmost  boughs.  But  they  re- 
member their  youthful  feats,  and  boast  them,  and  banter  each 
other.  Hiram  seemed  determined  to  have  some  of  the  old  gentle- 
men up  in  the  trees  : 

"  I  tell  ye.  Deacon  Trowbridge,  I  think  you're  as  smart  yet  as 
Deacon  Marble  is,  though  he  takes  on  sech  a  nimble  sort  of  step- 
pm'  'round.  It's  my  opinion  that,  at  a  fair  climb,  you'd  beat 
him." 

"  Oh,   Hiram,   I'm   too  heavy — though  I'm  pretty  spry  yet 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  341 

You  see,  brother  Marble  hasn't  got  so  much  to  carry  up  with 
him !  " 

"  No,  nor  so  much  strength  to  do  it  with." 

"  I'll  tell  ye  what,"  said  Deacon  Marble,  quite  in  the  spirit  of  a 
boy,  "  I'll  stump  you,  Trowbridge,  to  try  it.  I'll  give  you  that  big 
tree  with  low  branches,  and  I'll  take  that  slim  one — and  beat  you." 

They  soon  pulled  off  their  coats  and  assailed  their  respective 
trees.  Good  Deacon  Trowbridge,  when  his  phlegmatic  nature  was 
thoroughly  aroused,  was  a  man  of  great  strength.  He  took  a  hug 
at  the  tree  such  as  a  bear  might  have  given;  and,  at  first,  it 
seemed  as  if  he  were  going  to  succeed.  But  each  hoist  grew 
slower,  and,  though  cheered  by  Hiram,  it  was  doubtful  if  he  could 
reach  the  limb  just  above  his  head.  If  each  jerk  upward  had  car- 
ried his  body  up  as  fast  as  it  did  the  leg  of  his  pantaloons,  he 
would  soon  have  mounted  the  coveted  branch.  At  length  he  got 
hold  of  it,  but  no  more  could  he  do.  It  was  too  high  for  him  to 
let  go  and  jump,  and  as  to  getting  any  higher,  it  was  out  of  the 
question.  The  poor  man  seemed  in  a  woful  plight ;  but  Hiram, 
equal  to  every  emergency,  had  procured  a  rail,  and,  planting  it 
under  his  foot,  eased  him  down  safely  to  the  ground.  Meanwhile, 
Deacon  Marble,  slim  and  nervous,  had  gone  up  his  way  like  a 
squirrel.  Already  he  was  seeking  out  the  topmost  boughs,  and 
rattling  down  the  chestnuts  in  a  perfect  shower. 

The  shouts  of  merriment  soon  drew  many  to  this  rather  un- 
usual scene,  and,  among  others,  the  deacons'  wives.  Mrs.  Trow- 
bridge gave  way  to  unrestrained  laughter.  She  was  a  natural 
laugher.  She  laughed  with  her  mouth,  her  eyes,  her  whole  face, 
with  her  voice  and  all  her  body.  It  was  no  silvery  trickle,  but  a 
generous  tide,  that  set  in  strongly,  filled  every  indentation  along 
the  shore,  and  plashed  up  in  spray  all  the  more,  if  any  obstacle 
sought  to  stay  it. 

"  Well,  Trowbridge," — and  then,  like  a  child  with  the  hooping- 
cough,  she  gave  way  to  a  paroxysm  of  laughter, — "I  should  as 
soon" — and  again  she  was  swept  away  from  her  remark,  like  one 
carried  out  from  shore  by  a  refluent  wave, — "  I  should  as  soon  ex- 
pect " — the  words  were  drowned  in  laugh — "  to  see  "     *     *     "  to 

see    *    *     "  a  but "  at  which  she  fah*ly  seemed  to  dissolve, 

and  could  no  longer  hold  herself  up,  " a  butter-tub  clunb  a 

tree!" 


342  Norwood ;  or^ 

Far  other  were  the  emotions  which  filled  the  soul  of  Polly 
Marble  when  she  heheld  the  scene-.  A  fire  blazed  behind  her 
spectacles.  Though  she  was  infirm  in  limb,  the  weakness  had  in 
no  respect  reached  her  head,  every  member  of  which  was  active. 
At  first  she  seemed  unable  to  utter  her  amazement.  At  length  she 
gained  relief: 

"  Deacon  Marble,  you'd  better  come  down !  An  old  man  like 
you  a  courtin'  death  in  the  top  of  them  trees  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  himself!     It  ain't  decent." 

Then  turning  to  those  around  her,  she  expressed  herself  thus : 

"  "Wal,  Hiram,  I  dew  hope  you're  satisfied  at  last.  You're 
always  huntin'  after  mischief,  and  now  you've  got  it.  To  think 
oft !  One  deacon  a  puffin'  and  red  on  the  ground,  and  the  other 
up  in  the  tree-top !  No,  it's  no  laughin'  matter !  It's  a  sin  and  a 
shame,  and  I'm  surprised  that  any  body  should  laugh  at  such 
levity  and  folly,"  giving  poor  Mrs.  Trowbridge  a  look  of  reproof 
that  ought  to  have  sobered  her,  but  which  in  fact  served  to  renew 
her  agony  of  laughing,  for  she  palpitated,  and  held  on  to  her  sides, 
and  gasped  :   "  Oh,  I  shall  die — with — laughing — dew  stop !  " 

Turning  to  her  husband,  Mrs.  Marble  began  expostulating  with 
him. 

"  Deacon  Marble,  if  you  have  any  respect  for  me,  or  for  your- 
self— and  I  don't  think  you  have  a  speck — you'll  come  down! 
Every  body's  laughin'  at  you.  You're  a  sight  to  behold.  It's  a 
wicked  thing,  and  agin'  natur',  for  an  old  man  like  you  to  think 
he's  a  boy,  and  caper  about  in  the  trees.  If  the  Lord  had  meant 
you  to  be  a  squirrel  he'd  a  made  you  so !  " 

"Don't,  Polly,  don't.  I'm  comin'  down.  Just  look  here,  I 
wan't  to  tell  you  something !  " 

Incautious  Polly !  Will  you  never  learn  the  deceitfulness  of 
that  husband  of  yours?  She  ventures  under  the  tree  to  hear  what 
he  has  to  say,  just  as  he  gives  a  rousing  shake  to  the  branch  on 
which  he  was  lying.  Down  came  the  chestnuts,  and  down  came 
the  chestnut-burrs!  They  rattled  on  her  bonnet,  they  pattered  on 
her  shoulders,  and  one  burr — a  frivolous  burr,  given  to  levity, — 
struck  her  new  spectacles  and  knocked  them  quite  out  of  sym- 
metry. 

The  nimble  deacon  was  soon  on  the  ground,  and  would  fain 
have  left  the  impression  on  his  spouse  that  it  was  merely  the  act 


Village  Life  in  New  Midland.  34S 

of  getting  off  the  limb  to  come  down  that  brought  npon  her  the 
chestnuts.     Iliram  was  in  ecstasy. 

"  Isn't  the  deacon  cute  ?  Oh,  what  a  politician  he'd  a  made, 
if  he'd  only  kept  out  of  the  church  and  away  from  religion'" 

Other  parties  along  the  hills,  widely  separated,  were  busy  with 
pranks  and  mirth.  The  young  people  climbed,  the  old  and  the 
very  young  picked  up  the  brown  nuts.  The  scene  was  charming. 
Dr.  Wentworth  and  his  family  were  as  busy  as  any.  It  was  Pete's 
oflace  to  shake  the  trees.  The  whole  force  of  his  peculiar  genius 
now  had  full  play.  His  skill  in  climbing  was  something  worth 
looking  at.  His  venturesomeness  was  equal  to  his  skill  and 
strength.  It  was  no  great  feat  to  him,  when  trees  interlocked,  to 
swing  from  one  to  another, — to  drop  from  a  higher  branch  to  a 
lower,  never  missing  his  hold.  He  cleared  a  tree  of  nuts  in  an  in- 
credibly short  time,  and  the  doctor's  brown  bags,  replenished  from 
Pete's  labors,  began  to  stand  out  with  fatness. 

Heywood  had  made  himself  agreeable  to  the  various  parties. 
His  aunt  had  joined  the  Wentworths,  and  Eose  seemed  not  dis- 
pleased with  the  attentions  which  he  paid  her.  In  truth,  there 
was  something  in  Heywood's  manner  peculiarly  winning.  He 
was  strong,  frank,  manly ;  but  in  every  thing  an  innate  refinement 
manifested  itself,  and  that  unconscious  self-possession  and  quiet- 
ness which  come  from  long  familiarity  with  good  society.  Rose 
Bad  seldom,  if  ever,  met  with  one  whose  manners  approached  so 
near  to  a  fine  art,  while  his  spirit  was  as  artless,  apparently,  as  a 
child's.  That  the  charm  had  produced  no  effect  I  cannot  honest- 
ly affirm.  That  it  was  more  than  an  impression  upon  her  imagi- 
nation I  do  not  believe.  This  certainly  is  much,  and  in  perhaps  a 
majority  of  cases  it  is  final  and  effectual.  But  while  Eose  was 
pleased  with  Heywood,  and  found  his  presence  more  and  more 
agreeable,  she  began  to  look  more  closely  at  her  own  feelings, 
at  her  relations  and  his  to  other  people. 

During  the  whole  summer  Eose  had  perceived  a  declension  of 
attention  in  Barton  Cathcart  towards  her,  and  nearly  in  the  pro- 
portion in  which  Heywood  had  grown  more  attentive.  It  seemed 
as  if  one  was  quietly  withdrawing  and  giving  place  to  the  other. 

There  are  many  things  which  we  do  not  value  if  only  we'  can 
have  them,  but  which  we  painfully  miss  if  they  are  withheld. 
Every  one  has  noticed  how  little  effect  praise  produces  on  him, 


344  Norwood ;  OTy 

and  yet  Low  distiustly  he  feels  the  lack  of  it  when  it  is  not  given. 
While  Barton  seemed  at  home  with  her,  and  the  long  acquain- 
tanceship and  childhood  associations  clustered  about  their  famihar 
intercourse,  Kose  did  not  fairly  estimate  the  value  at  which  she 
held  Barton.  But  when  he  seemed  to  fall  off,  when  in  his  stead 
another,  of  a  wholly  different  and  contrasted  nature,  came  in  his 
place,  Eose  was  conscious,  not  of  positive  pain,  or  even  regret,  but 
of  uneasiness  and  of  a  questioning  within  herself. 

Heywood  she  believed  to  be  true  and  right-minded.  She 
thought  that  his  nature  was  transparent.  He  was  one  who  could 
never  appear  in  any  society  without  drawing  to  him  all  eyes,  and 
could  never  be  known  without  drawing  to  him  as  well  the  confi- 
dence of  all.  And  yet  there  was  no  sense  of  reserved  power  with 
him.  His  whole  nature  lay  apparent.  There  were  no  depths  out 
of  which  might  rise  unexpected  disclosures.  He  was  fine-natured, 
handsome,  accomplished,  brilliant  in  society,  and  true-hearted. 
These  qualities  could  not  fail  to  touch  any  one's  fancy.  But  in  all 
their  intercourse  he  had  never  introduced  any  subject  deeper  than 
is  sounded  by  common  experience.  "While  both  of  these  friends 
were  near  her,  each  yielding  the  fruit  of  his  own  nature,  the  con- 
trast was  not  so  much  displayed.  Eose  had  felt  a  vague  uneasi- 
ness through  the  summer,  that  Barton,  though  seeming  the  same 
in  manner  as  ever,  had  less  and  less  frequented  her  father's  house 
During  his  vacation  he  had  but  once  visited  them ;  and  now,  sud- 
denly, without  any  leave-taking,  he  had  gone  away,  to  be  absent 
for  months.  Eose  was  surprised  and  piqued  by  this  seeming  want 
of  care  for  her,  who  had  been  his  friend  from  childhood.  It  did 
not  seem  as  if  there  could  ever  be  a  pause  in  their  friendship  any 
more  than  between  herself  and  her  father  or  mother.  She  could 
scarcely  mark  the  degrees  through  which,  in  some  measure,  she 
and  Barton  had  let  go  of  each  other ;  but  it  was  clear  to  her  that 
they  were  receding.  With  distance  came  perspective.  More  than 
ever  now  she  valued  that  depth  of  nature  in  Barton,  out  of  which 
endless  mysteries  came.  She  could  never  divine  from  the  themes 
of  to-day  what  would  be  the  range  of  thought  on  which  his  mind 
would  travel  when  next  they  met.  There  was  a  strong  aspiration 
in  him,  an  indefinable  yearning,  which  wrought  in  him  on  the  one 
side  self-distrust  and  humility,  and  on  the  other  exceeding  boldness 
and  changefal  activity.     Her  father  was  fruitful  of  thought,  but 


Village  Life  in  New  En(jland.  345 

restful.  Barton  was  restless— a  voyager  along  new  seas  and 
strange  continents.  Now  that  ho  was  parted  from  her— so  abrupt- 
ly that  it  seemed  as  if  he  was  broken  off— she  became  conscious  of 
the  force  and  depth  of  his  character.  If  there  was  an  uncertain 
unrestfulness  in  it,  it  was  perhaps  but  the  fermentation  which, 
when  completed,  would  sink  the  lees  to  the  bottom  and  leave  the 
generous  wine  clear  and  strong. 

It  ought  not  to  be  thought  that  these  analyses  were  made  by 
Rose.  They  are  but  the  philosophical  deduction  and  solution  of 
certain  impressions  and  convictions  in  her  mind.  And  it  was 
necessary  to  draw  them  out  with  some  distinctness,  in  order  to 
account  for  her  present  course.  For,  by  one  of  those  fortunate 
accidents  which  seem  to  attend  picnics  in  the  woods,  Heywood 
and  Rose  had  wandered  off  from  the  family.  Either  chestnuts  lay 
thicker  toward  a  little  brook,  which  gurgled  and  twined  through 
a  dell,  and  was  proud  of  the  yellow  leaves  which  it  whirled  in 
mimic  rafts  down  its  pretty  cascades,  or  collected  in  some  eddying 
pool,  or  else  they  were  attracted  by  the  mossy  beauty  of  a  beech- 
tree,  whose  roots  had  been  partially  undermined,  but  whose 
undiminished  green  yet  braved  the  frosts.  There  sat  Rose,  and 
Heywood  in  his  very  soul  believed  that  so  lovely  a  creature 
there  was  not  in  all  the  world  besides.  Could  he  bear  her  in 
triumph  home  to  his  friends  he  could  ask  no  other  surety  of 
happiness  for  life,  and  no  other  pledge  of  his  victory  over  Virginia 
prejudice! 

"Why  did  Rose  suffer  these  illusions  which  in  her  secret  soul 
she  knew  could  not  be  realized?  Tell  me,  ye'who  have  suffered 
the  enchantment  of  the  midsummer  night's  dreams  and  fancies! 
Tell  me,  ye  who  remember  how  the  charmed  imagination  hushes 
every  caution,  sees  aU  events  in  heightened  colors,  and  bears  one 
as  in  a  delicious  dream,  over  paths  and  through  experiences  which, 
though  distinct,  seem  unreal,  magical,  enchanting ! 

Have  you  never  seen  a  child's  bubble  blown  till  its  glowing 
sides  are  pictured  in  exquisite  tints,  and  then  thrown  off  into  the  air, 
rising  or  settling  down,  with  motion  so  gentle  that  it  seems  more 
like  a  thought  than  a  thing  ?  Untouched,  it  holds  on,  a  brilliant 
globe,  on  whose  sides  earthly  objects,  purified  and  refined,  are 
reflected,  as  if  they  were  heavenly  pictures— revelations  of  scenes 
unapproachable.    But,  once  seek  to  possess  it,  lay  but  your  lightest 


346  Norwood;  or, 

finger  upon  it,  and  the  arch  and  orb  collapse,  and  the  brilliant 
picture  disappears ! 

The  horn  sounded  for  the  dinner.  Calls  were  heard  for  one 
and  another,  and  for  Rose.  Soon  she  was  seen  slowly  corning  up 
the  dell.  Her  eyes  showed  that  she  had  been  weeping.  Heywood 
was  with  iier,  as  one  who  is  absent.  Something  between  sadness 
and  sternness  was  in  his  face.  I  know  not  what  had  passed ;  nor 
how  Rose  excused  herself  for  permitting  what  she  had  always 
before  forestalled  and  prevented.  Perhaps  she  did  not  excuse 
herself.  Perhaps  her  sense  of  regret  at  Barton's  neglect  and 
unceremonious  leaving  had  carried  her  farther  than  she  knew,  and 
she  awoke  with  a  strong  rebound  into  her  full  former  self.  I  only 
know  that  she  seemed  more  pained  and  regretful  than  she  had  ever 
been  seen  before.     But  even  greater  pangs  were  just  before  her. 

The  stream  near  whose  border  Rose  had  been  sitting  came 
down,  not  far  above  them,  from  a  ravine  of  singular  beauty.  At 
the  point  where  the  water  fairly  escaped  from  its  entanglement, 
the.rocks  came  so  near  together  as  to  form  a  kind  of  door,  not 
more  than  twenty  feet  wide,  but  its  sides  were  steep,  and  rose  to 
a  considerable  height,  and  then  sloping  off  backward,  were  covered 
with  shrubs  and  finally  with  trees.  Once  within  that  door  a 
charming  space  opened,  between  one  and  two  hundred  feet  in 
diameter,  and  shut  in  by  walls  to  a  great  height.  At  the  farther 
side,  as  you  entered,  the  stream,  descending  in  a  fall  about  thirty 
feet  in  height,  fell  into  a  deep  pool.  It  then  stole  away  close  by 
the  rocks,  leaving  a  level  space  on  the  other  side  large  enough  for 
a  party  of  several  hundred.  Before  it  made  its  plunge,  the  waters 
far  up  might  be  seen  rushing  down  an  incline  on  the  shelving  rocks 
at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees.  On  either  side  of  this  chamber 
the  rocks  were  stratified,  and  shrubs  and  plants  grew  in  their 
seams.  The  more  adventurous  among  the  young  men,  by  dextrous 
use  of  their  toes  in  these  rifts,  and  by  grasping  firmly  the  roots  or 
stems  with  their  hands,  climbed  up  the  steep  face  of  the  rocks, 
and  ascending  above  the  cascade,  foUowed  up  the  ravine  to  new 
falls  and  romantic  passages.  Already  a  dozen,  against  the  pro- 
testation of  the  ladies,  had  scattered  themselves  along  the  precipi- 
tous cliffs.  Hey  wood,  who  sat  buried  in  thought,  seemed  suddenly 
to  awake,  and  began  climbiug  the  dangerous  way.  Ko  one  could 
be  more  adroit ;  yet  even  he  could  not  afford  to  go  along  that 


Village  Life  in  New  Ihigland,  347 

perilous  way  with  •wandering  thoiiglits.  Suddenly  there  arose  a 
wild  outcry.  Those  below  looked  up  to  see  the  splash  of  water 
along  the  inclined  way  above  the  fall,  and  quicker  than  thought, 
shot  out  over  the  fall,  Hey  wood  was  seen  descending  toward  the 
pool  beneath  !  Within  it  lay  many  rocks  broken  off  by  frosts  and 
hidden  by  the  water,  and  no  more  dangerous  place  for  a  plunge 
could  well  be  found. 

Into  the  boiling  pool  he  dropped  and  disappeared.  In  a 
moment — it  seemed  to  Rose  an  age — a  dark  form  emerged  along 
the  edge  of  the  pool.  Instantly,  on  the  alarm,  there  was  a  rush 
from  every  direction.  But  Pete,  who  was  half  way  up  the  cliff, 
seemed  fairly  to  glide  down  the  side  of  the  rock,  so  nimbly  did  ho 
descend;  and  first  of  all  he  was  by  Hey  wood's  side,  and  lifted  him 
from  the  water,  and  laid  him  upon  the  mossy  meadow  just  beyond. 

Dr.  "Wentworth  was  sent  for,  and  soon  arrived.  Heywood  lay 
like  one  dead.  The  wet  hair  fell  back  from  his  white  temples. 
Rose  chafed  his  hands,  and  gazed  upon  him  with  an  expression  of 
indescribable  anguish.  With  a  faint  cry,  as  Pete  laid  Heywood 
upon  the  moss,  Alice  Cathcart  fell  into  her  father's  arms  fainting. 
But  already  Heywood  began  to  revive.  He  had  been  stunned  by 
the  fall.  Arrangements  were  speedily  made  to  convey  him  to 
'Biah  Cathcart's,  the  nearest  point  at  which  he  could  receive 
needed  attention,  and  where  Dr.  Wentworth  could  make  a  more 
critical  examination  of  his  hurts. 


CHAPTER  XXXVm. 

COXYALESCEXCE. 

Hetwood  revived  a  little.  But  he  was  unable  to  stand,  and  it 
was  necessary  to  carry  him  out  of  tlie  gorge.  It  was  not  diflBcult 
to  convey  him  to  the  opening.  But  here  he  was  stopped.  The 
only  mode  of  entrance  or  exit  was  by  a  narrow  ledge,  some  sis 
feet  above  the  brook,  and  this  path  was  so  difficult  that  each  one 
was  obliged  to  sustain  himself  by  holding  fast  to  the  limbs  of  a 
spruce  tree  which,  growing  out  of  a  rift  in  the  rocks  above, 
reached  down  its  branches  and  afforded  a  safe  hold.  At  the  very 
turning  point  of  the  rock  it  was  necessary  to  slip  around  a  jutting 
corner  in  order  to  get  securely  upon  the  path  on  the  other  side. 
This  feat,  to  one  of  moderately  firm  head,  was  not  difficult  or 
perilous.  It  was  often  accomplished,  and  had  been,  as  we  have 
seen,  to-day,  by  ladies,  and  was  a  bit  of  bravery  which  enhanced 
the  pleasure  of  an  excursion  to  the  glen.  But  a  path  which  could 
be  easily  traced  by  a  single  person  would  be  far  more  difficult 
when  a  party  should  attempt  it  bearing  a  helpless  man  in  their 
arms.  Various  devices  were  suggested,  but  all  seemed  impractica- 
ble, and  the  counsellors  were  at  a  loss  what  steps  to  take.  It 
was  suggested  that  they  should  send  down  to  Cathcart's  for  ropes, 
and  fastening  them  to  trees  above,  swing  Heywood  around  the 
point ;  or  draw  him  up  the  face  of  the  rocks  to  the  slope  above, 
and  convey  him  thence  down  an  old  charcoal-burners'  road. 

An  exclamation  of  fear  and  wonder  called  all  eyes  to  Pete's 
doings.  He  seemed  to  have  taken  in  all  the  difficulties  at  a  glance, 
and  to  have  seen  the  easiest  solution  of  them,  provided  one  had 
strength  enough,  a  good  eye  and  sure  foot.  "Without  saying  a  word 
or  asking  permission,  Pete  took  up  Heywood,  as  if  he  were  no 
heavier  than  Eose  used  to  be  when  he  strode  all  over  the  country 
with  her,  and  laid  him  diagonally  across  his  breast,  so  that  his 
own  long  left  arm  passed  under  Heywood's  right  arm,  over  his 
loins,  with  a  firm  clasp,  such  as  only  great  strength  and  length  of 
limbs  could  have  effected.    But  Heywood  groaned  with  pain,  and 


Village  Life  in  Nexo  England.  349 

Pete  relinquished  this  hold.  After  a  moment's  pause,  Pete  lifted 
Heywood  again,  and  laying  him  back  to  back,  so  that  his  own 
head  would  come  at  Heywood's  neck,  he  held  him  fast  with  his 
right  arm  upon  his  shoulder,  leaving  his  left  hand  free  for  other 
purposes.  Then,  with  short  steps,  he  descended  into  the  brook, 
which  made  its  way  out  of  the  gorge  through  rocks  lying  in  every 
position,  sinking  now  into  deep  pools,  then  sliding  over  wide  and 
slippery  stones  with  a  shallow  sheet,  and  playing  every  other  feat 
which  an  untamed  mountain  stream  is  wont  to  do.  "With  a  practised 
eye  Pete  selected  each  point  for  his  feet;  with  a  sure  foot  he 
planted  himself  firmly  on  each  selected  spot — now  wading,  now 
with  the  help  of  a  branch  turning  sharp  angles,  never  baffled  or 
for  a  moment  perplexed,  until,  before  those  who  took  the  regular 
path  could  get  round  below  to  the  point  where  the  stream  issued 
from  its  rough  rocky  bed,  Pete  had  come  out  triumphantly,  and 
was  walking  rapidly  through  the  woods  to  'Biah  Cathcart's  wagon, 
in  which  Heywood  was  speedily  conveyed  to  Cathcart's  house. 

It  was  with  clouded  face  and  more  suffering  than  she  had  ever 
experienced  that  Pose  followed  with  her  father  in  the  steps  of  the 
injured  man.  Alice,  in  full  sympathy  with  Rose,  seemed  even 
more  affected,  but  in  a  different  way.  They  appeared  to  have 
changed  natures — Rose  was  sunk  in  thought ;  Alice  was  demon- 
strative in  her  feeling.     But  neither  of  them  spoke. 

As  soon  as  they  arrived,  Heywood  was  conveyed  to  the  blue 
room  opening  out  of  the  sitting-room.  Upon  an  examination,  it. 
was  found  that  two  ribs  had  been  fractured  and  he  had  received 
a  blow  upon  the  head, — whether  severe  or  not,  could  not  be  de- 
termined except  by  after-symptoms.  It  was  judged  wise  not  to 
attempt  to  remove  him  to  Mr.  Chandler's,  and,  for  several  weeks, 
he  was  the  guest  of  the  Cathcarts. 

The  centre  of  authority  in  a  household  is  permanent,  but  the 
centre  of  interest  fluctuates  almost  from  day  to  day :  now,  it  is  a 
little  child  around  which  all  revolve ;  a  long-absent  friend,  or  a 
child  returned  from  school,  for  a  day  or  two,  holds  all  other  inter- 
ests subordinate.  But  nothing  transforms  the  house  so  instantly, 
and  reaches  out  with  such  force  to  change  the  whole  economy,  as 
a  sick-room.  It  is  the  heart  of  the  house,  and  the  pulse  of  the 
mansion  beats  according  to  its  expansion  or  contraction.  The  pa- 
tient, it  may  be,  can  neither  speak  nor  see,  yet  any  member  of  the 


360  Norwood ;  or, 

family,  rising  np  or  sitting  down,  going  out  or  coming  in,  is  con* 
scions  that  he  is  affected  by  the  relations  of  his  action  to  the  com- 
fort of  the  sufferer.  And  so  sickness  is  a  silent  legislator,  and  lays 
its  law  upon  the  domestic  commonwealth. 

If  Heywood  had  sought  out  a  place  in  which  to  he  sick,  he 
could  not  have  selected  more  skilfully.  The  social  atmosphere  of 
the  place  was  cheering  and  soothing.  The  order  and  quietness  of 
the  household,  that  inexplicable  something  which  makes  some 
houses  frigid. and  repulsive,  and  others  genial  and  attractive, — a 
something  made  up  in  part  by  the  dispositions  and  ways  of  the  in- 
mates, and  in  part  too  by  the  proportions  and  style  of  the  rooms 
and  passages,  the  colors  and  details  of  form — aU  contributed  im- 
portant elements. 

The  blue  room  was  wainscotted  for  about  four  feet  from  the 
floor.  The  residue  of  the  sides  was  papered  with  pale  pearly  blue. 
The  ceihng  had  a  faint  tint  of  the  same  color. 

In  this  room  stood  an  old-fashioned  secretary  of  solid  mahog- 
any ;  on  another  side  the  book  shelves ;  and  all  the  chairs  were 
old-fashioned,  heavy  and  of  mahogany.  The  windows,  too,  were 
old-fashioned,  with  small  six-by-eight  panes  of  glass,  with  inside 
folding  shutters.  From  the  bed  one  could  look  out  into  the  sitting- 
room,  through  the  open  door,  and  through  a  window  on  its  far 
side,  the  yard  and  its  shrubbery  could  be  seen,  the  western  horizon, 
and  the  setting  sun,  which,  when  the  curtains  were  removed,  shot 
its  last  rays  clear  through  the  sitting-room  across  the  floor  of  the 
blue  room,  where,  from  the  opposite  horizon,  through  its  own 
windows,  every  morning  the  sunlight  fell. 

For  a  day  or  two  Heywood  seemed  stupefied ;  then  a  slight 
fever  arose  ;  he  was  restless  and  wandering  in  mind.  He  seemed 
oblivious  of  the  recent  scenes,  and  made  no  allusion  to  persons  or 
things  in  the  l!^orth.  Starting  from  a  moment's  sleep,  he  would 
call  his  mother;  and  when  Eachel  Cathcart,  who  was  seldom  be- 
yond earshot,  came  to  his  side,  a  perplexed  smile  would  come  over 
his  face,  as  if  he  was  conscious  that  he  had  made  some  mistake, 
but  was  unable  to  discern  what  the  mistake  was. 

During  this  time  'his  aunt,  Mrs.  Chandler,  remained  continually 
with  him,  dividing  the  care  with  Eachel  Cathcart. 

One  morning,  while  Mrs.  Chandler  went  home  for  an  hour  or 
two,  Alice  sat  in  Heywood's  room.      The  window  stood  open. 


Villa(je  Life  in  New  En  (/land.  35] 

The  autumnal  sud  and  autumnal  air  gave  a  peculiar  charm  to  the 
day. 

Nature  seemed,  as  one  who  has  been  at  a  banquet.  The  hills 
glowed  with  brilliant  colors.  The  near  trees  were  like  jovial 
maskers  in  a  holiday.  Many  of  the  trees  on  which  Alice's  eye 
rested  had  been  planted  by  her  brother  Barton,  who,  instructed  by 
Dr.  TVentworth's  better  knowledge,  had  selected  them  with  refer- 
ence to  spring  and  autumn  tints,  as  well  as  to  their  forms  and 
relative  harmonies.  A  clump  of  Norway  spruces  was  fringed  on 
one  side  with  scarlet  sumachs,  a  fine  mountain  ash  relieved  its 
clusters  of  berries  against  the  dark  green,  and  on  one  of  the  ever- 
greens an  ampelopsis  had  climbed,  and  peeped  out  in  crimson  here 
and  there,  up  to  the  top,  where  it  had  completely  covered  the  tips. 
There  was  something  freakish  in  the  gay  and  familiar  way  in  which 
this  brilliant  vine  took  liberties  with  a  sober  tree,  reminding  one 
of  the  caprices  which  a  pet  child  sometimes  takes  with  a  solemn 
old  grandfather — climbing  his  shoulders,  disarranging  his  hair, 
pulling  at  his  sacred  spectacles !  Alice,  like  many  another  not 
given  to  talking,  made  up  in  musings  and  reveries.  She  was  this 
morning  full  of  nameless  feelings,  changing  from  light  to  dark 
almost  as  fast  as  the  colors  changed  when  her  eye  moved  over  the 
external  prospect.  Yet  Heywood's  very  breath  was  audible  to  her 
ear,  nor  could  he  draw  a  long  breath,  nor  move  a  hand  without 
her  notice.  Thus  the  woman  heart  pulsed  between  affectionate 
duty  and  fanciful  beauty.  Now,  she  listened  to  murmurs  of  the 
bees,  then  to  the  pretentious  buzzing  of  the  flies,  that  seemed  in- 
spired to-day  with  more  than  usual  affection.  They  insisted  on 
familiarity.  They  refused  to  take  offence  at  the  utmost  rudeness. 
Then  she  watched  the  spiders'  webs  which  had  been  spread  and 
hung  in  every  direction,  saying  in  herself — "How  many  hopes  are 
like  the  spider's  web,  woven  in  the  night,  bright  in  the  morning 
dew,  perishing  before  the  first  footfall !  "  A  cat,  a  pure  Maltese, 
sat  on  the  path  making  her  toilet.  She  licked  her  paws,  and  then 
with  them  sponged  her  face,  rubbing  down  her  ears  with  the 
greatest  care ;  and  then  she  began  licking  her  breast,  bending  her 
pliant  neck  as  if  intent  upon  reaching  under  her  very  chin.  Alice 
smiled.  She  had  seen  other  people  who  thought  that  their  nature 
was  changed  because  they  had  licked  their  breasts  smooth.  She 
turned  to  the  bed !  It  was  only  a  long  breath — a  sigh  in  his  sleep ! 
IG 


352  Norwood;  or, 

A  woodpecker,  with  little  sharp  claws  that  could  hold  its  snng 
little  body  in  any  position,  head  up,  head  down,  head  sideways — 
ran  nimbly  round  the  tree,  keenly  inspecting  each  crevice,  and 
probing  here  and  there  with  its  bill.  The  tree  was  miserably 
healthy,  and  this  critic  flew  away  with  a  harsh,  grating  note  o 
disgust. 

Surely  he  moved !  Iso.  His  eyes  are  closed.  He  sleeps. 
Will  he  ever  wake  to  consciousness  and  reason  ? 

A  crooning  of  hens  and  flutter  of  chickens  drew  her  attention. 
A  hawk  was  flying  past,  far  above  in  the  sky.  What  ? — danger 
close  up  to  the  heaven  ?  Is  the  deep  pure  air  infested,  as  well  as 
swamps,  and  coverts,  and  dens  ?  If  one  creeps,  there  are  creeping 
enemies.     If  one  flies,  there  are  winged  pursuers  ! 

Some  one  called  her : 

"  Alice  !  " 

She  started  and  went  to  Heywood.  It  was  his  first  lucid 
morning. 

"  Where  am  I  ?    What  has  happened?  " 

Alice  in  her  joy  could  hardly  answer  his  questions.  Her  face 
was  radiant;  but  with  strong  restraint  upon  her  feelings,  she 
quieted  herself,  as  if  afraid  that  talking  might  harm  him.  She 
told  him  simply  that  he  had  met  with  an  accident ;  that  he  had 
been  for  more  than  a  week  here  in  her  father's  house;  that  Dr. 
Weutworth  came  every  day  to  see  him,  and  would  soon  be  here, 
and  then,  if  he  thought  best,  she  would  talk  with  him  more. 

The  name  of  Dr.  Wentworth  seemed  to  catch  his  ear,  and,  as  a 
clue,  helped  him  to  regain  some  faint  hope  of  memory  in  the  past. 

"  Wentworth  ?  Ah — I  remember.  Were  we  not  in  the  woods  ? 
Let  us  see.  Did  not  something  happen  to  Miss  Eose  ?  Was  she 
hurt?" 

Then  an  expression  of  sadness  fell  upon  Heywood's  face,  and 
he  half  turned  away  from  Alice,  saying : 

"1:^0,  no,  no; — I  remember." 

The  expression  of  joy  and  exhilaration  which  had  lit  up  Alice's 
face  passed  away.  She  turned  to  the  door  to  summon  her  mother. 
Dr.  Wentworth  was  already  with  his  hand  upon  the  latch. 

"  Ah,  Alice,  how  is  our  patient  ?  Worse?  Your  face  carries 
bad  tidings." 

"  IsTo,  Doctor,  good  tidings.    He  is  in  his  mind  again." 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England.  303 

"  TVell  then,  my  dear,  you  conld  afford  a  gladder  look  for  a 
friend's  improvement.     But  I  must  see  for  myself." 

Hey  wood  improved  every  day  after  this,  though  at  first  slowly. 
His  constitution  had  never  been  shaken  by  indulgent  habits,  and 
now  he  reaped  the  benefit  of  a  virtuous  and  temperate  life.  The 
blow  upon  his  head  gave  most  concern  to  Dr.  "Wentworth,  and  a 
depression  of  spirits  which  hung  upon  him  seemed  to  the  Doctor  a 
not  favorable  sign.  Still,  as  his  symptoms  steadily  ameliorated, 
and  his  strength  began  to  return,  he  was  allowed  to  hear  reading 
a  little  at  a  time.  His  aunt  most  frequently  took  the  place  of 
reader.  But  for  some  reason  her  manner  of  reading  rendered  Hey- 
wood  nervous.  On  the  other  hand,  Alice's  voice  and  manner  had 
a  soothing  and  refreshing  influence.  Little  by  little  this  task  fell 
almost  exclusively  to  her.  Her  good  nature  and  her  kindness  never 
wearied.  Whatever  she  was  doing,  or  however  weary,  the  least 
hint  by  word  or  look  was  sufiBcient.  Every  day  she  culled  from 
papers  and  from  magazines  such  passages  as  she  thought  likely  to 
please  him,  and  was  never  better  pleased  herself  than  when  Hey- 
wood's  interest  in  her  reading  led  him  to  remarks  and  conversation. 
After  he  had  begun  to  sit  up  a  portion  of  the  day,  the  details  of  the 
accident  by  which  he  had  been  injured  were  told  to  him.  But  he 
recalled  nothing  distinctly.  He  remembered  the  nutting,  and  he 
had  a  faint  impression  of  the  glen  into  which  the  party  had  entered. 
But  there  was  an  indistinct  impression  on  his  mind  that  somehow 
Rose  had  been  connected  with  his  fall  and  injury.  This  subject 
seemed  painful  to  Alice. 

"  Alice,  were  you  there  when  I  fell  ? " 

"  Yes.  I  saw  it  all.  It  v>'as  fearful  beyond  any  experience  0^ 
my  life." 

"  I  was  climbing?  " 

"  Yes — you  had  risen  higher  than  the  falls." 

"  And  was  Rose  chmbing?  " 

"No." 

"  How  came  she  to  fall,  then  ?  " 

"She  did  not." 

" How  did  I  fall,  then?" 

"  You  slipped." 

"And  she  held  fast?" 

"  She  had  nothing  to  do  with  you." 


354  Norwood ;  or, 

"  I  am  sure  she  had,"  said  he,  looking  doubtinglj  at  AHce. 

But  as  the  subject  seemed  unwelcome  to  the  gentle  Alice,  after 
once  or  twice  renewing  his  questions,  he  dropped  the  subject.  As 
strength  returned,  so  Heywood  sought  to  relieve  his  kind  friends 
of  the  tasks  of  nursing,  or  at  least  to  lighten  them.  His  thoughts 
naturally  reverted  to  his  Yirginia  home ;  and  as  he  found  Alice 
interested  in  his  reminiscences,  he  was  quite  willing  to  solace  him- 
Belf  by  describing  the  scenes  of  his  childhood,  his  father's  planta- 
tion, mansion,  and  household.  A  listener  more  sympathetic  than 
Alice,  one  could  not  desire.  She  delighted  to  sit  upon  her  low 
sewing-chair  near  the  window.  Thus  the  light  was  thrown 
upon  Hey  wood's  face,  while  her  own  was  in  shadow.  Many 
of  the  happiest  hours  of  her  life  were  passed  thus,  and  Alice  began 
to  dread  the  day  when  her  gentle  services  should  be  no  more 
needed. 

October  was  ended.  Its  golden  scroll  was  rolled  up  and  put 
away.  November  had  come,  and  its  nightly  frosts,  its  cold  rains, 
its  vigorous  winds,  had  stripped  the  trees,  and  the  forests  were  bare. 
Orchards  yet  maintained  a  show  of  damaged  leaves.  The  white 
oak  and  the  beach  refused  to  part  with  all  their  foliage,  and  tufts 
of  russet  leaves  clung  to  the  ends  of  the  branches,  not  in  bravery 
and  beauty,  but  as  mourning  weeds  worn  by  trees  disconsolate  for 
the  loss  of  summer.  It  was  with  surprise,  when  Heywood  first 
went  to  his  window,  that  he  saw  the  change.  A  month  had  trans- 
formed the  fields  and  hills.  He  had  left  them  glowing  with  gor 
geous  colors.  1\  ow  they  were  sad  and  sombre.  Nor  did  he  fail  to 
draw  an  analogy  between  his  own  hopes  then  and  his  prospects 
now. 

But  great  as  had  been  the  physical  changes  during  his  sickness 
and  recovery,  yet  more  wonderful  changes  had  taken  place  in  society 
than  in  nature.  The  great  political  contest  had  closed  in  the  elec- 
tion to  the  Presidency  of  the  United  States  of  Abraham  Lincoln 
(a  name  then  but  little  known,  but  since  spoken  in  every  corner  of 
Christendom)  and  added  to  the  roll  of  those  upon  whom  Time  has 
no  power.  Of  all  the  strifes  and  struggles  Heywood  knew  nothing. 
And,  as  'Biah  Cathcart,  little  by  little,  detailed  the  narrative  of 
events,  and  recounted  the  early  steps  that  were  then  taking  place 
in  that  great  and  terrible  tragedy  of  civil  confiict,  Heywood,  free 
from  those  influences  which  were  swaying  so  many  of  his  friends 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  355 

in  Virginia,  entered  warmly  into  Oathcart's  feelings  for  the  integ- 
rity of  the  nation. 

Heyw^ood  conld  not  conceal  from  himself  with  what  regrets  he 
left  this  hospitable  farm-house  of  'Biah  Cathcart's  to  return  to  his 
aunt's.  He  had  already  staid  a  fortnight  after  Dr.  Wentworth 
gave  him  permission  to  remove.  There  was  a  charm  in  its  quiet 
which  suited  both  his  feelings  and  his  physical  condition.  The 
family,  too,  grew  upon  his  respect  and  affection.  He  found  in 
'Biah  Cathcart,  though  simple  and  unpretentious,  a  degree  of 
knowledge  which  would  have  been  remarkable  in  a  professional 
man,  and  which  he  would  never  have  thought  of  looking  for  in  a 
plain  farmer.  His  wife,  Eachel  Cathcart,  seemed  like  a  second 
mother.  "With  scarcely  an  element  of  character  like  his  own 
mother,  she  yet  produced  upon  Heywood  the  same  effects  that  ho 
remembered  at  home.  Alice,  too,  on  nearer  acquaintance,  and 
after  her  timidity  was  broken  through,  disclosed  a  wealth  of  char- 
acter which  he  had  not  suspected. 

It  was  not,  however,  till  he  had  returned  to  ISTorwood  that  he 
became  alive  to  the  excitement  which  prevailed  in  the  nation. 
The  letters  from  his  home  gave  evidence  of  the  intensity  of  South- 
ern feeling. 

A  few  extracts  from  his  letters,  written  or  received,  will  serve 
to  show  the  influences  acting  upon  him. 

*  *  *  "  Father  says  that  separation  will  come,  and  he  does 
not  care  how  soon.  If  South  Carolina  goes  out,  and  a  convention 
is  already  caUed  to  frame  an  ordinance  of  secession, — he  says  that 
every  Southern  State  will  follow— will  have  to  follow.  He  is  quite 
enthusiastic  about  the  Great  Eepublic  of  the  South ;  and  he  ia 
doing  all  that  he  can  to  spread  his  sentiments  among  the  gentle- 
men who  visit  us.  He  derides  the  idea  of  war !  '  I  can  carry  in 
this  cup,'  said  he  this  morning  at  the  breakfast  table,  '  all  the  blood 
that  will  be  shed.'  If  the  South  are  united,  the  ITorth  will  never 
choose  to  resist.  And  if  they  do,  he  argues,  there  will  never  be 
more  than  a  single  fight.  The  Northern  people,  he  says,  handle 
tools  too  well  to  meddle  with  the  sword.  You  know  that  he  has 
great  contempt  for  Northern  laborers.  They  are  a  sordid  set,  fit 
for  drudgery,  but  not  for  fighting. 

"  He  is  vexed  that  you  do  not  write.  It  is  two  months  since 
we  have  heard  a  word  from  you.     From  some  hints  in  your  last 


356  Norwood ;  or, 

letter,  he  suspects  that  you  are  entangled  with  some  fair  Yankee 
damsel ;  and  sister  says  she  knows  who  it  is.  Father  frets  and 
fumes.  '  Every  man  that  loves  the  South  should  be  at  his  post. 
Tom  has  no  business,  when  Vii'ginia  is  getting  ready  to  lead  the 
new  Republic,  to  be  dallying  in  the  North.  He  ought  to  show  his 
colors  and  stand  up  for  his  principles.'  And  so,  you  see,  Tom, 
just  what  is  going  on  here,  and  will  know  how  to  lay  your  course 
accordingly. 

"  Mother  is  well.  "We  are  all  gay  and  lively,  in  spite  of  the 
times.  Zanoni  has  recovered  from  his  injury,  and  bears  the  sad- 
dle again.  "We  are  laying  out  for  great  sport  this  winter.  Shall 
we  have  you  to  help  ?"**** 

HETWOOD  TO  HIS  BROTHER  HAL. 

*  *  *  "  I  do  not  wonder  that  my  silence  attracts  attention. 
For,  though  I  am  not  a  very  diligent  correspondent  at  any  time, 
yet  I  seldom  allow  ten  weeks  to  pass  without  a  letter.  But  you 
may  now  know, — I  did  not  care  that  you  shoinld  before, — that  I 
have  been  confined  to  my  room  for  some  six  weeks,  on  account  of 
injuries  received  by  a  fall.  I  was  climbing  rocks,  and  fell  more 
than  thirty  feet,  breaking  two  ribs  and  receiving  a  severe  blow 
upon  my  head.  I  have  had  much  to  sober  me  ;  much  to  give  to 
life  a  more  serious  tone.  If  now  the  country  shall  rush  into  war, 
as  I  fear,  it  wUl  be  the  climax  of  my  trouble,  and  I  shall  almost 
wish  that  the  blow  on  my  head  had  been  some  degrees  harder.  I 
cannot  sympathize  with  my  father.  I  am  in  a  better  situation  to 
know  these  IvTorthern  people  than  he  or  any  of  our  Southern  friends 
can  be.  You  may  depend  upon  it  that  separation  will  not  be  peace- 
fully allowed.  There  is  an  under  spirit  among  this  people  that 
politicians  don't  take  into  account.  The  Southern  opinion  of  their 
courage  is  founded  upon  a  difference  in  the  education,  principles 
and  spirit  of  the  !N'orth  and  South,  which  makes  it  well  nigh 
impossible  for  you  to  appreciate  the  reason  of  their  seeming  reluc- 
tance to  fight.  But  should  they  once  be  aroused  by  circumstances 
which  appealed  to  patriotism  and  duty,  you  may  depend  upon  it 
that  they  will  show  not  only  courage,  but  an  indomitable  persever- 
ance which  will  wear  out  opposition.  And  should  the  question 
be  Union  or  Disunion — two  nations  or  one  United  States — I  am 
free  to  say  tTiat  my  heart  goes  with  the  old  flag,  and  though  I  hope 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  357 

to  be  spared  the  dreadM  necessity  of  lifting  my  hand  against  my 
own  State,  yet  I  sliould  deem  that,  terrible  as  it  would  be,  an  evil 
less  to  be  dreaded  than  to  lift  my  hand  agamst  that  flag  of  our 
fathers  which  gathers  to  its  folds  the  dearest  memories  and  the 
most  honored  associations  of  American  history." 

During  the  whole  winter  Heywood  sought  to  shield  himself 
from  the  turbulence  of  public  feeling,  which  increased  with  every 
month.  His  health,  though  rapidly  improving,  was  yet  delicate, 
and  rendered  him  specially  liable  to  excitements.  He  fondly  hoped 
that  by  some  fortunate  arrangement  the  great  parties  to  the  con- 
flict might  harmonize  their  differences,  and  secure  that  day  of 
peace  which  for  thirty  years  public  men  had  hoped  for  and  sought 
in  vain. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  the  differences  were  radical,  that 
should  they  be  really  brought  into  conflict  one  must  destroy  the 
other,  and  that  they  uere  being  brought  into  conflict,  by  a  course  of 
events  which  moved  with  such  breadth  and  power  as  to  give  all  the 
signs  that  it  was  imp  elled  by  a  Divine  decree.  As  men,  when  a  stream 
begins  to  rise  over  its  banks,  eagerly  seek  to  stop  the  breach,  to 
dam  against  and  to  control  the  ravages  of  the  rising  flood,  which 
disdains  all  interference  and  sends  them  back  in  dismay  to  wait 
and  watch  what  the  waters  will  do,  so  the  wise  men  and  the  man- 
agers found  themselves  dealing  with  uncontrollable  events,  that 
were  working  out  their  own  career,  and  would  not  suffer  men  to 
restrain  them. 

About  the  middle  of  February,  fearing  the  boisterous  weather 
of  March  m  Massachusetts,  and  hoping  by  change  of  scene  and 
association  to  put  the  finishing  stroke  upon  his  recovery,  Heywood 
bid  farewell  to  his  friends  in  Norwood  and  left  for  New  York,  on 
his  way  to  Charleston  in  South  Carolina. 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 

THE    OLD   ilAX'S   JOURNEY. 

Sd\Ce  winter  shut  in,  in  good  earnest,  and  snows  were  deep, 
and  the  winds  were  searching,  Tommy  Taft  found  himself  every 
month  less  ahle  to  get  about.  His  last  visit  had  been  at  Dr.  Went- 
worth's,  hoping  to  hear  something  about  Barton  Cathcart,  whose 
continued  absence  the  old  man  found  it  hard  to  bear.  He  asked 
no  questions.  The  sturdy  old  fellow  would  scarcely  be  beholden 
to  any  one  even  for  information.  His  own  hands  could  no  longer 
provide  him  the  means  of  support.  Charity  he  resented.  Had  it 
not  been  for  the  kindness  of  Dr.  Wentworth  and  the  Cathcarts, 
he  would  have  suffered.  But  through  his  wife,  unknown  to  him, 
they  contrived  to  supply  his  necessities  under  the  color  of  his 
wife's  earnings. 

His  last  visit,  we  said,  was  at  Dr.  "Wentworth's.  It  was  a  fine 
winter  day,  in  January.  It  was  one  of  those  days  in  which  nature 
is  both  brilliant  and  relentless.  The  sparkle  of  the  air,  the  scope 
of  the  sunlight,  the  transparency  of  the  atmosphere,  seem  like 
kindness  in  nature.  But  out  of  that  very  nourishing  air  sweep 
sharp  winds,  w^hose  temper  is  unmollified  by  the  sun,  and  which 
turn  all  the  radiance  of  the  day  to  mockery.  Did  you  never  think 
of  this  ?  Then  you  have  looked  out  of  a  parlor-window  into  this 
air ;  or,  bundled  up  in  furs,  you  have  shot  through  the  snow  in  a 
brilliant  sleigh,  protected  from  cold ;  or  you  have  such  vigor  of 
health,  that  your  warm  blood,  with  merry  rebound,  beats  off  the 
assaulting  frosts.  But  were  you  ever  called  out  into  such  a  day 
poorly  clad,  poorly  fed,  and  with  slender  health?  The  great 
northerly  winter  rolls  down  her  fleece  upon  her  insentient  family- 
of  sleeping  children,  and  tucks  up  the  flower-roots,  and  broods 
upon  all  the  buried,  waiting,  hybernating  creatures ;  and  then, 
careless  of  the  rest,  she  sings  harsh  songs  in  the  woods,  and  roars 
all  night  through  the  air,  as  if  men  in  hovels,  in  sick-rooms,  in 
poor-houses — the  sick,  the  feeble,  the  old — were  none  of  her  con- 
cern. And  then,  after  one  of  those  wild  winter  revels,  when  the 
snow  has  blinded  the  air,  and  whirled  and  sifted  through  every 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  359 

crevice,  and  heaped  itself  against  fence  and  hedge,  and  settled 
down  in  sheltered  places  in  mountain-drifts,  how  the  morning 
will  come  in  with  open  face  and  charming  expression,  as  if  there 
had  been  no  quarrel  all  night,  nor  a  saucy  wind,  nor  a  pitiless 
storm,  but  all  was  good  and  beautiful,  and  not  nature,  but  the 
lame  and  feeble  were  at  fault,  if  any  body  was  chilly,  or  cold,  or 
suffering ! 

It  was  on  just  such  a  morning  that  Tommy  Taft  grtmted  and 
stopped,  now  and  then,  for  breath,  as  he  made  his  way  to  Dr. 
Wentworth's.  He  did  not  think  all  these  fine  things.  And  yet, 
that  was  about  the  meaning  of  his  grunts,  if  he  had  had  the  fancy 
to  unroll  and  interpret  them  to  the  best  advantage.  Agate  Bissell 
saw  him  coming  up  the  path.  She  went  to  the  front  door,  in  real 
kindness,  opened  it  to  the  old  man,  saying : 

"  Eeally,  Mr.  Taft,  I  pity  any  body  who  has  to  be  out  on  so  cold 
a  morning." 

"Thankee,  marm,  for  nothing.  Keep  your  pity  for  those  that 
need  it — I  don't." 

"  There's  no  use  in  being  touchy.  You  are  sick,  Taft,  and  you 
know  it.  I  think  it  would  be  better  to  let  the  doctor  know,  and 
see  if  he  can't  help  you." 

"  He  help  me  ?  That's  good.  What  can  he  give  me  for  eyes 
worn  out.  Eh  ?  What's  good  for  the  innards  pretty  much  used 
up.  Eh  ?  Do  you  think.  Agate,  he  would  give  me  any  thing  for 
my  wooden  leg?  Eh?  It's  getting  monstrous  heavy  nowa- 
days." 

There  was  something  ghastly  to  pious  Agate  in  such  talking  by 
a  man  seemmgly  not  far  from  the  grave ;  and  though  her  genuine 
pity  led  her  to  forbear  such  a  reply  as  she  would  once  have  given, 
yet  she  could  not  help  saying: 

"  Taft,  if  you  don't  get  help  it's  over  with  you.  Honestly  now, 
my  friend,  you  seem  to  me  to  be  not  far  from  the  grave." 

"  Jest  as  true  as  ye  live,  Agate.  I've  ben  on  the  road  to  it 
seventy  years,  and  I  know  I  must  be  gittin'  near  it  by  this  time. 
The  grave  is  a  tavern  where  a  good  many  put  up,  Agate,  and  I 
never  heerd  that  any  body  complained  of  his  fare." 

This  was  said  in  a  peculiar  tone  that  might  be  banter,  or  sad 
earnest,  and  Agate  could  not  tell  which.     She  looked  earnestly  at 
Tommy  and  said : 
16* 


360  Nonoood ;  or, 

"  Taft,  have  you  made  your  preparations  ?  Have  you  done 
any  thing  to  get  ready  ?  " 

"  I've  been  gittin'  ready  as  long  as  I  can  remember ;  and  as  to 
preparations,  yon  know  that  Turfmould  and  I  are  neighbors,  and 
he's  agreed  to  do  the  right  thing  by  me.  Don't  be  afraid,  Agate. 
I  shall  be  a  landholder  before  long.  Turfmould  makes  good  titles. 
I  guess  mine  '11  hold." 

"  Taft,  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  you." 

"  You  don't  need  to  make  any  thing.  I  am  made  up,  already, 
and  have  been  as  long  as  I  can  remember,  though  if  I  was  to  be 
made  up  agin.  Agate,  I  don't  know  any  body  that  would  do  it  bet- 
ter than  you,  eh  ?  "  said  Tommy,  giving  Agate  one  of  those  winks 
that  acted  upon  her  like  a  spark  of  fire  upon  powder. 

She  rose  with  the  dignity  of  anger,  and  was  spared  the  trouble 
of  opening  the  door  by  Rose,  who  came  in  just  as  Agate  was 
ready  and  anxious  to  pass  out. 

Eose  went  to  the  old  man  with  an  affectionate  cordiality  that 
seemed  more  like  a  child's  love  for  a  grandparent  than  the  greet- 
ing of  a  neighbor  or  benefactor. 

Tommy  tried  to  rise,  but  Rose  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder 
familiarly  and  pressed  him  back  into  his  chair. 

"  ]Sro,  no ;  there  is  no  use,  Uncle,  in  ceremony.  You  are  not 
strong.  How  pale  your  face  is !  Father  tells  me  that  the  winter 
goes  hard  with  you.  I  know  you  will  be  glad  to  know  that  we 
have  heard  from  Barton  Cathcart.  He  wrote  to  father  on  some 
business.     He  is  very  happy,  and  talks  of  living  in  the  West." 

"  Living  in  the  "West?  "  said  Tommy,  with  unaffected  surprise, 
as  if  his  feelings  had  been  hurt ;  "  livmg  in  the  "West  ?  and  I  sha'n't 
see  him  agin  ?  Die,  and  not  see  the  boy  agin  ?  I  can't  have  it ; 
indeed.  Miss  Rose,  I  can't  You  must  write  and  tell  him  so. 
There  ain't  but  one  Barton  Cathcart  in  this  world,  and,  if  other 
folks  don't  know  his  value,  I  do.  I'd  rather  die  to-morrow,  if  I 
could  see  him  to-night,  than  live  a  year  and  not  see  him.  I  tell 
you,  Miss  Rose,"  said  Tommy,  with  a  solemnity  which  she  had 
never  seen  him  manifest  before,  "  I  can't  die  till  I  see  Barton.     I 

wait  to  ask  him  something.     I  want  to  know "  and  with  that 

he  hesitated,  and  looked  at  Rose  almost  imploringly.  "  I  want  to 
know  something  about  it.  If  Barton  says  it's  right,  it's  right,  and 
I'll  believe  it." 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  361 

Rose  could  make  nothing  out  of  these  sentences.  But  looking 
at  Tommy  as  if  it  was  all  plain,  she  said : 

"  Barton  writes  that  he  will  be  home  in  February,  and  I've  no 
doubt  he  will  make  it  all  right." 

"  Comin'  in  February  ?  Let's  see,  that's  three  or  four  weeks, 
Mebbe  that  'd  be  too  late." 

"  Can  I  help  you,  Uncle  Tommy  ?  Am  I  not  as  good  as 
Barton?" 

Tommy  had  risen,  and,  looking  at  Rose  with  great  kindness, 
said : 

"Bless  you,  dear  child,  you're  good  enough  to  be  Barton's 
own  self;  and — well  I  must  hobble  home.  I'm  afeered  of  an 
attack." 

Tommy  had  become  subject  to  paroxysms  of  severe  pain  in  the 
stomach.  During  their  continuance  he  was  peculiarly  unwilling 
to  have  any  one  present,  even  his  wife.  He  would  shut  himself 
up  in  his  loft  and  growl  and  groan  by  himself.  These  attacks  were 
becoming  more  frequent,  and  the  whole  system  was  becoming 
weakened  by  this  affection.  To  his  daughter's  inquiry,  Dr.  Went- 
worth  replied : 

"  The  disease  is  obscure.  I  suppose  it  to  be  a  cancerous  affec- 
tion of  the  stomach.  That  it  will  prove  fatal  I  do  not  doubt ;  but 
whether  he  will  drop  off  suddenly,  or  be  gradually  worn  out  with 
suffering,  I  cannot  tell." 

The  old  man  bravely  resisted  all  sympathy.  He  would  allow 
no  one  to  pity  him.  He  had  nothing  to  say  about  his  own  suffer- 
ings, and  was  angry  at  any  allusion  to  them.  Mother  Taft,  her- 
self feeble,  hovered  around  the  old  man  with  a  kind  of  helpless 
■pity,  which  she  dared  not  speak,  and  could  not  hide.  The  most 
unlovely  side  of  his  character  Tommy  Taft  showed  to .  his  wife. 
This  habit  was  contagious,  for  several  others  in  the  village  were 
known  to  have  the  same  disagreeable  trait.  Fortunately  it  was 
confined  to  the  one  sex ! 

As  the  old  man  rose  to  depart,  Rose  felt  a  presentiment  that 
she  should  never  see  him  again.  She  was  just  about  leaving 
home  to  make  a  visit  to  her  relatives  in  Boston,  which  should  have 
been  made  during  the  holidays,  but  was  prevented  by  her  mother's 
transient  illness.  As  he  moved  slowly  toward  the  door,  she  re- 
called the  days  of  her  childhood,  how  many  times  he  had  frolicked 


362  Noncood ;  or, 

with  her,  how  many  little  games  he  had  taught  her,  what  funny 
Btories  he  had  invented  to  amuse  her,  visiting  his  rude  quarters, 
and  her  heart  was  deeply  touched  with  the  old  man's  sufferings, 
which,  every  time  she  saw  him,  seemed  to  he  gaining  ground. 
"When  Tommy  turned  at  the  front  door,  as  Eose  reached  out  her 
hand  to  say  good-hye,  a  tear  rolled  down  her  cheek  and  fell  upon 
the  old  man's  hand. 

*'  Good-bye,  dear  Uncle  Tommy ;  I  shall  never  meet  you  again, 
untU  we  meet  in  Heaven." 

At  first  the  old  man  seemed  annoyed  at  her  feeling,  and  said 
somewhat  harshly : 

"What  you  cryin'  for?  I  ain't  dead  yet?  That's  funeral 
business."  But,  changing  his  tone,  Tommy  Taft  for  a  moment 
seemed  to  identify  Barton  with  Rose.  Looking  tenderly  at  her 
ont  from  nnder  his  great,  shaggy  eyebrows,  he  said:  "It's  jest  as 
like  as  not  that  what  you  say  is  true ;  and  if  I  don't  see  him  again, 
you  tell  him  that  I  wanted  him.  I  won't  trust  none  of  them  folks 
to  show  me.  It's  a  pretty  dark  way  for  a  lame  old  man  to  be 
stnmblin'  in  alone ;  and  I  shouldn't  like  to  take  the  wrong  turn, 
you  know.  This  kind  o' journey's  one  a  fellow  can't  go  back  on. 
If  he  gits  wrong,  why  wrong  it'll  have  to  be ;  and  if  Barton  was 
only  here  to  show  me  the  way — eh  ? " 

Eose  was  deeply  affected.  She  had  never  in  all  her  life  heard 
Taft  speak  of  religion  except  in  broad  humor,  and  never  at  all  in 
its  relations  to  his  own  future  condition.  It  was  not  the  languid 
sentiment  of  one  weakened  by  long  sickness,  nor  the  inspiration 
of  fear.  The  old  man  would  have  been  as  sturdy  and  defiant  as 
ever  had  one  word  been  spoken  amiss ! 

Eose  knew,  in  spite  of  all  his  faults,  the  real  depth  of  the  old 
man's  heart.  She  knew  the  rugged  strength  of  his  mind,  and  the 
unusual  sagacity  of  his  perceptions.  Why  was  he  lying  useless  at 
the  bottom  of  society  ?  His  power  should  have  ranked  him  among 
the  first.  To  see  such  a  one  peering  into  the  dark  future  and 
confessing  his  inability  to  see  how  to  tread  its  way,  would  have 
touched  the  sympathy  of  one  far  less  sensitive  than  Eose. 

Looking  tenderly  at  the  old  man,  Eose  repeated  the  words : 

"  '  Though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death, 
I  will  fear  no  evil ;  for  thou  art  with  me ;  thy  rod  and  thy  staff, 
they  comfort  me.' " 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England.  363 

"That's  it,"  said  the  old  man,  "you've  hit  it  exactly.  If 
Barton  was  along  I  had  as  lief  trudge  as  not." 

"Barton  could  not  help  you.  There  is  One  who  has  said,  'I 
am  the  Way,  and  the  Life,' — He  can  help  you." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder.  But  I  know  Barton,  and  he's  got  a  head- 
piece, lie's  thought  of  all  these  matters,  and  ain't  tied  up  to  old 
world  notions ;  and  if  lie  says,  '  Tommy,  it's  all  real,'  that's  enough. 
You  most  understand.  Miss  Kose,  that  I  don't  care  much  about 
myself;  but,  do  ye  see,  I'd  like  to  keep  along  with  Barton,  and  if 
I  knew  the  track  he's  going  to  take,  you  may  be  sure  you'd  find 
me  there." 

If  it  had  been  Dr.  Buell,  he  would  not  have  suffered  Tommy 
Taft  to  rest  on  any  such  human  affection  as  a  security  in  death. 
But  Eose,  without  reflecting  on  the  theological  aspects  of  the  case, 
was  glad  to  see  in  the  old  man  any  thoughtfulness  about  dying, 
and  she  hoped  that  through  his  affection  for  Barton  he  might  be 
led  to  a  higher  trust  and  a  surer  hope. 

It  was  indeed  the  last  time  she  ever  saw  Taft.  Before  her 
return  from  Boston  both  Tommy  Taft  and  Barton  Cathcart  had 
left  Norwood,  the  one  on  that  road  where  travellers  journey  only 
one  way,  and  Cathcart  had  gone  to  the  great  war  which  broke 
forth  in  the  spring,  like  the  conflagration  of  a  continent. 

For  a  week  after  this  interview  Tommy  Taft  was  detained  in 
the  house  by  the  severity  of  the  weather.  When  the  skies  relented 
he  was  too  weak  to  get  about  ak)ne.  Every  week  his  anxiety 
increased  to  see  Barton.  Pain  could  not  subdue  his  stubborn  will. 
But  no  will  could  sustain  the  daily  weakening  body.  It  was  the 
last  week  in  February  before  the  old  man  fairly  took  to  his  bed 
and  gave  up  all  hope  of  seeing  Cathcart  before  he  died.  His  spirits 
were  depressed  and  his  temper  not  the  best.  Dr.  Buell,  faithful  to 
his  fractious  parishioner,  still  visited  him  from  time  to  time,  hoping 
that  in  some  favorable  hour  he  might  cast  light  into  his  darkened 
mind.     One  day  a  knock  sounded  at  his  door. 

"  Come  in, — or  stay  out,  as  suits  ye  best,'  said  Tommy. 

Dr.  Buell  entered. 

"  Come  in.  Doctor.  You're  always  at  work  on  the  old  sinner. 
Really,'  I  had  a  pain  this  morning  that  liked  to  let  me  through." 

"  I  hope,  Taft,  that  you  find  yourself  willing  to  depart,  if  it  bo 
God's  will." 


364  Norwood;  OTi 

"  WeH,  well,  as  to  that,  Doctor,  I  guess  when  a  clock  has  run 
down  it  stops,  not  because  it  has  a  mind  to,  but  because  it  can't 
help  it!" 

"  Yet,  one  may  have  Christian  resignation  to  events  which  he 
cannot  control.  It  is  a  very  solemn  thing  to  die,  Taft,  and  the  fu- 
ture is  dark  to  those  -who  have  no  hope  in  the  Saviour." 

"  "When  a  ship's  driven  in  by  gales,  and  has  to  make  a  harbor, 
it's  mighty  convenient  to  have  a  light-house ;  but  if  there  ain't  any, 
why  a  feller  must  get  in  the  best  way  he  can." 

"  But  there  is  a  light.  Christ  is  the  light  of  the  world.  There 
is  no  need  of  darkness  to  one  who  trusts  Him." 

"That's  so;  that's  good  doctrine — sound  views,  no  doubt. 
You  was  always  very  clear.  I  often  said  that  if  a  man  didn't  un- 
derstand you  he  needn't  go  to  meetin'  any  where,  for  there  wan't 
any  better  preachin'  in  the  State." 

In  short,  it  was  plain  that  Taft  did  not  mean  to  talk  about  his 
feelings  with  the  minister.  Dr.  Buell  was  deeply  moved  with 
pity.  The  old  man's  pale  face,  his  weakness,  the  nature  of  his  dis- 
ease, indicated  that  he  had  not  long  to  live.  He  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment in  doubt  whether  it  would  be  worth  while  to  suggest  praying 
with  the  sick  man,  who  sat  propped  up  in  bed. 

"  Taft,  if  it  would  be  pleasant — if  you  desire  it,  that  is — I  shall 
be  glad  to  pray  with  yon." 

"  No  objection  in  the  world !  If  I  was  one  of  the  elect  I'd  do 
it  myself." 

"  Is  there  any  thing  that  you  would  like  me  specially  to  so- 
licit?" 

"If  it's  proper,  and  just  the  same  to  you,  ask  the  Lord  to  send 
Barton  Cathcart  home,  and  let  me  see  the  boy  once  more  afore 
I  die." 

Tommy  Taft  had  a  large  head  and  face.  Usually  there  was  a 
rugged  and  somewhat  sharp  expression  to  his  features.  But  sick- 
ness had  turned  his  face  pale,  his  bushy  side  locks  were  very  gray, 
and  his  eyes  peered  out  from  under  his  brow  with  more  than 
common  brightness.  He  did  not  shut  them  while  Doctor  Buell 
prayed.  He  looked  over  the  form  of  the  kneeling  minister  with 
an  expression  in  which  mirth  was  blended  with  pain.  It  seemed 
to  say : 

"  Poor  fellow  !    It  don't  take  much  to  make  you  happy!  " 


Village  Life  in  New  Enc/land,  365 

It  was  very  plain  that  Tommy  did  not  accept  any  one  as  priest 
but  Barton  Cathcart,  and  that  the  only  thread  by  -which  his  rugged 
nature  could  be  led  was  the  single  golden  strand  of  affection. 

He  grew  daily  weaker,  and  more  and  more  crabbed.  It  was  a 
hard  task  for  Mother  Taft.  lie  poured  out  words  like  paving 
stones  upon  her.  He  would  agree  to  nothing,  and  seemed  likely 
to  go  out  of  the  world  like  a  shaggy  bear  seeking  his  northern 
covert  for  hybernation.  On  the  first  day  of  March  it  was,  that 
Tommy  Taft  had  been  unquietly  sleeping  in  the  forenoon,  to  make 
up  for  a  disturbed  night.  The  little  noisy  clock, — that  regarded 
itself  as  the  essence  of  a  Yankee,  and  ticked  with  immense  alacrity, 
and  struck  in  the  most  bustling  and  emphatic  manner, — this  in- 
dustrious and  moral  clock  began  striking,  whir-r-r,  one  ;  whir-r-r, 
tim  ;  whir-r-r,  three;  (Tommy  jerked  his  head  a  little  as  if  some- 
thing vexed  him  in  his  sleep ;)  whir-r-r,  four ;  whir-r-r,  jiiie ; 
whir-r-r,  dx ;  ("  Keep  still,  will  ye  ?  let  me  alone,  old  woman ! 

d your  medicine;")  whir-r-r,  seven;  whir-r-r,  eight;  ("God 

in  Heaven!  as  sure  as  I  live,"  said  Tommy,  rubbing  his  eyes  as  if 
to  make  sure  that  they  saw  aright ;)  whir-r-r,  nine;  whir-r-r,  ten/ 
Then,  holding  out  his  arms  with  the  simplicity  of  a  child,  his  face 
fairly  glowing  with  joy,  and  looking  now  really  noble,  he  cried : 

"Barton, — ^my  boy,  Barton, — I  knew  you  wouldn't  let  the  old 
man  die,  and  not  help  him !     I  knew  it !     I  knew  it !  " 

After  the  first  surprise  of  joy  subsided,  Tommy  pushed  Barton 
from  the  edge  of  his  bed  : 

"  Stand  up,  boy ;  turn  round !  There  he  is !  Now  I'm  all  right. 
Got  my  pilot  aboard.  Sealed  orders — ready  to  sail  the  minit  the 
hawser's  let  go." 

After  a  few  words  about  his  return  from  the  "West,  his  health, 
and  prospects,  the  old  man  returned  to  the  subject  that  seemed  to 
lie  nearest  his  heart. 

"  They've  all  had  a  hand  at  me.  Barton.  There's  twenty  firms 
in  this  town  that  is  willin'  to  give  a  feller  sailin'  orders,  when  they 
see  he's  out'ard  bound.  But  I  am  an  old  salt — I  know  my  own- 
ers !  "  said  Tommy,  with  an  affectionate  wink  at  Barton. 

"  Oh,  my  boy,  you're  back  agin  ;  it's  all  right  now.  Don't  you 
let  me  go  wrong.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  just  where  you're  goin', 
and  I'll  bear  right  up  for  that  port !  You  know.  Barton,  I  never 
cheated  you  when  you  was  a  boy.     I  took  care  of  ye,  and  nevei 


366  Norwood ;  or, 

told  you  a  lie  in  my  life,  and  never- got  you  iu  a  scrape.  You 
won't  cheat  an  old  man  now,  will  ye  ?  " 

It  was  all  that  Barton  could  do  to  maintain  his  self-possession. 
Tears  and  smiles  kept  company  on  his  face. 

"  My  dear  old  Tommy,  we  won't  part  company.  We're  both 
bound  to  the  same  land.  God  will,  I  fervently  hope,  for  Christ's 
sake,  forgive  all  our  sins,  and  make  us  meet  for  everlasting 
life !  " 

"  Amen !  "  roared  out  the  old  man.  "  Go  on.  You  really  be- 
lieve in  it  ?  Come  here.  Barton,  sit  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
look  me  in  the  face,  and  no  flummery,— do  you  really  believe  that 
there's  another  world  ?  " 

" I  do,  Tommy,  I  believe  it  in  my  very  soul!  " 

"  That's  enough !  I  believe  it  too,  jest  as  sartain  as  if  a  shipmate 
had  told  me  alSout  an  island  I'd  never  seen,  but  he  had." 

"  ITow,  Barton,  give  me  the  bearin's  oft.  D'ye  believe  that 
there's  a  Lord  that  helps  a  poor  feller  to  it  ?  " 

"  I  do.  Christ  loves  me,  and  you,  and  all  of  us.  He  is  glorious 
in  love ;  and  for  no  other  reason  in  the  world  than  because  He 
loves  to  do  kind  things.  He  saves  all  who  trnst  Him." 

"  He  don't  stand  on  particulars,  then  ?  He  won't  rip  up  all  a 
feller's  old  faults,  will  He? — or  how's  that?  Don't  you  ease  up 
on  me,  Barton,  just  to  please  me,  but  tell  me  the  hardest  on't.  I 
believe  every  word  you  say." 

Barton's  own  soul  had  travelled  on  the  very  road  on  which 
Tommy  was  now  walking,  and  remembering  his  own  experience, 
and  some  of  those  wonderful  crystals  which  he  had  dug  out  of  the 
ridges  of  the  Old  Testament,  and  which  he  had  set  in  his  memory 
with  even  more  feeling  than  before,  made  up  in  part  by  the  re- 
newal of  his  own  former  experiences,  he  repeated  to  Tommy  these 
words,  saying  to  him : 

"  Tommy,  if  I  was  describing  a  man  to  you,  you  would  take 
hira  to  be  just  what  I  say,  wouldn't  you?  " 

"Sartain!" 

"  Well,  this  is  God's  nature.  You  are  going  towai-d  him,  and 
ought  to  know  how  to  behave." 

"  That's  as  true  as  the  compass.  Did'nt  I  tell  ye,  old  woman, 
when  Barton  came  it  would  be  plain  sailin'  ? " 

*'*And  ihQ  Lord  passed  by  before  him,  and  proclaimed.  The 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  367 

LOED,  The  LoED  God,  merciful  and  gracious,  long-suffering,  and 
abundant  in  goodness  and  truth. 

"  '  Keeping  mercy  for  thousands,  forgiving  iniquity  and  trans- 
gression and  sin,  and  that  will  by  no  means  clear  the  guilty  ;  visit- 
ing the  iniquity  of  the  fathers  upon  the  children,  and  upon  the 
children's  children,  unto  the  third  and  to  the  fourth  generation:^ 
Exodus  xxxiv.  8,  9. 

"  Then  again,  Tommy,  hear  this : 

"  Who  is  a  God  like  unto  thee,  -that  pardoneth  iniquity,  and 
passeth  by  the  transgression  of  the  last  of  his  heritage  ?  he  retain- 
ed not  his  anger  fur  ever,  because  he  delighteth  in  mercy. 

"  '  He  will  turn  again,  he  will  have  compassion  upon  us  ;  he 
will  subdue  our  iniquities ;  and  thou  wilt  cast  all  our  sins  into  the 
depths  of  the  sea.'  "— Micah  vii.  18,  19. 

"  Xow  that's  to  the  p'int.  Barton.  The  Lord  will  tumble  a 
feller's  sins  overboard  like  rubbish,  or  bilge-water  and  the  like, 
when  a  ship  is  in  the  middle  of  the  ocean  ?  Well,  it  would  puzzle 
a  feller  to  find  'em  agin  after  that.  Is  that  all?  I'm  to  report  to 
Him?" 

"  Yes,  Tommy;  you  are  to  report  to  God  just  as  I  should  re- 
port to  you  if  you  were  a  ship  owner,  and  I  were  the  captain,  and 
had  made  mistakes  and  losses  on  the  voyage.  Suppose  you  loved 
me  just  as  you  do  now,  and  I  were  to  come  back  to  you  and  make 
a  clean  breast  of  it,  what  would  you  do  to  me?  " 

"  Do  ?  You  know  what  I'd  do  ?  I'd  say— Barton,  hold  your 
yawp  ;  not  another  word  atween  us.    I  care  more  for  you  than  for 

every  d^ dollar  of  the  cargo." 

Barton  did  not  stop  for  Tommy's  adjectives. 
"  That's  just  what  God  says  to  us :  '  All  his  transgressions  that 
he  hath  committed  they  shall  not  be  mentioned  unto  him.'    '  Have 
I  any  pleasure  at  all  that  the  wicked  should  die,  saith  the  Lord 
God?'" 

"  Wei],  now,  this  is  honorable!  It  makes  a  feller  feel  mean, 
though,  Barton,  when  he's  treated  so,  and  then  thinks  what  sort  of 
a  feller  he's  been." 

Barton  then  read  from  the  fifteenth  chapter  of  Luke  to  the  old 
man  the  parable  of  the  prodigal  son. 

"  Barton,  would  ye  jest  as  lief  do  me  a  little  favor  as  not  ?  " 
"Whatisit,  Taft?" 


368  Norwood ;  or, 

"  "Would  ye  rriind  sayin'  a  little  prayer — for  me — it  makes  no 
differ eDce,  of  course  ;  but  jest  a  line  of  introduction  in  a  foreign 
port  sometimes  helps  a  feller  amazingly." 

Barton  knelt  by  the  bedside  and  prayed.  TVitbout  reflecting  at 
the  moment  on  Uncle  Tommy's  particular  wants,  Barton  was  fol- 
lowing in  prayer  the  line  of  his  own  feelings ;  when,  suddenly,  ho 
felt  Tommy's  finger  gently  poking  his  head. 

"I  say,  Barton,  ain't  you  steerin'  a  p'int  or  two  off  the  course? 
I  don't  seem  to  follow  you." 

A  few  earnest,  simple  petitions  followed,  which  Taft  seemed  to 
relish. 

"Lord  forgive  Tommy  Taft's  sins!  ("Now  you've  hit  it," 
said  the  old  man,  softly.)  Prepare  him  for  Thy  kingdom. 
("  Yes,  and  Barton,  too  !  ")  May  he  feel  Thy  love,  and  trust  his 
soul  in  Thy  sacred  keeping.  ("Ah,  ha!  that's  it — you're  m  the 
right  spot  now.")  Give  him  peace  while  he  lives.  ("  ^o  matter, 
about  that— the  doctor'll  give  me  opium  for  that !  go  on.")  And, 
at  his  death,  save  his  soul  in  Thy  kingdom,  for  Christ's  sake. 
Amen." 

"  Amen.    But  did'nt  you  coil  it  away  rather  too  quick? " 

The  fact  was,  that  Barton  was  not  used  to  the  office  of  public 
prayer,  and  still  less  to  the  running  commentaries  of  Tommy  Taft, 
which,  though  helpful  to  the  old  man,  were  of  no  assistance  to 
Barton. 

"  Now,  Barton,  my  boy,  you've  done  a  good  thing.  I've  been 
waitin'  for  you  all  winter,  and  you  did'nt  come  a  minit  too  soon. 
I'm  tired  now ;  but  I  want  you  to  come  back  to-morrow.  I've 
got  somethin'  to  tell  you.  I  never  let  you  know  nothin'  about  my 
life,  and  I've  a  mind  to  tell  you.  Oh,  it  was  a  cruel  shame  for 
my  uncle  to  treat  me  so !  I  might  have  made  a  man  if  I'd  had 
half  a  chance.  No  matter.  But  I  want  to  say  one  thing :  Barton, 
when  I'm  gone,  you  won't  let  the  old  woman  suffer?  She's  had  a 
pretty  hard  time  of  it  with  me.  She's  like  a  sparrow  that  builds 
it's  nest  in  a  thorn  bush.  I  knew  you  would.  One  thing  more, 
Barton,"  said  the  old  man,  his  voice  sinking  almost  to  a  whisper, 
as  if  speaking  a  secret  from  the  bottom  of  his  soul,  "Barton,  you 
know  I  never  had  much  money.  I  never  laid  up  any — couldn't. 
Now  you  won't  let  me  come  on  to  the  town  for  a  faneral — will 
ye  ?    I  should  hate  to  be  buried  in  a  pine  coffin,  at  town  expense. 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  369 

and  have  folks  laugh  that  did'nt  dare  open  their  head  to  me  when 
I  was  'round  town !  And  then,  Barton,  you'll  put  old  Smasher  in 
with  me !  Of  course,  it  ain't  an j  matter,  but  I'd  rather  take  my 
leg  along,  if  it's  all  the  same  to  other  folks !  " 

Barton  could  not  forbear  smiling,  as  the  old  man,  growing 
visibly  feebler  every  hour,  went  on  revealing  traits  which  hia 
sturdy  pride  had  covered  when  he  was  in  health. 

"  And,  Barton,  I  wish  you'd  let  the  children  come  when  I'm 
buried.  They'll  come  if  you'll  just  let  'em  know.  Always  trust 
the  children !  And — (pain  here  checked  his  utterance  for  a 
moment) — and,  let's  see,  what  was  I  saying?  Oh,  the  children. 
I  don't  want  nothin'  said.  But  if  you'd  jest  as  lief  let  the  children 
sing  one  of  their  hymns,  I  should  relish  it." 

The  color  came  suddenly  to  his  cheek,  and  left  as  suddenly. 
He  pressed  his  hand  over  his  stomach,  and  leaned  his  head  further 
over  on  his  pillow,  as  if  to  wait  till  the  pang  passed.  It  seemed 
long.  Barton  rose  and  leaned  over  him.  The  old  man  opened  his 
eyes,  and  with  a  look  of  ineffable  longing,  whispered  : 

"  Kiss  me." 

A  faint  smile  dwelt  about  his  mouth  ;  his  faced  relaxed  and 
seemed  to  express  happiness  in  its  rugged  features.  But  the  old 
man  was  not  there.  Without  sound  of  wings,  or  footfall,  he  had 
departed  on  his  last  journey ! 


CHAPTER  XL. 

FAITH     REKINDLED. 

Ox  their  way  home  from  the  burial,  Judge  Bacon,  Parson 
Buell,  Dr.  "Wentworth,  and  Barton  Cathcart  walked  together,  talk- 
ing of  the  old  man  and  the  funeral.  The  whole  town  seemed  to 
have  turned  out.  It  was  even  proposed  to  use  the  church,  not  so 
much  in  respect  for  the  dead  as  for  the  living.  Few  families  were 
there  where  Mother  Taft  had  not  ministered,  and  there  was  un- 
usual sympathy  for  her  now.  But  she  and  Barton,  who  assumed 
the  arrangements,  thought  it  wiser  that  Tommy  Taft  should  go  to 
his  grave  from  the  homely  quarters  where  he  had  lived.  A  prayer 
was  made,  a  hymn  sung,  and,  if  Tommy  heard  it,  his  spirit  could 
not  but  have  been  content  with  the  number  and  sweetness  of  the 
children's  voices'.  There  were  enough  people,  now  that  he  was 
gone,  to  say  kind  things  of  him,  and  to  apologize  for  his  eccen- 
tricities. 

"I  have  always  been  of  opinion,"  said  Judge  Bacon,  "that 
Taft  would  have  been  a  man  of  great  power  in  society  if  he  had 
been  subject  to  early  training  and  fortunate  circumstances.  The 
rough  material  was  in  him,  and  education  might  have  shaped  it  to 
the  proportions  of  an  uncommon  manhood." 

"You  were  with  him.  Barton,  when  he  died — did  he  seem  to 
have  any  proper  conception  of  the  solemn  event  ?  "  inquired  Dr. 
Buell. 

Barton's  account  of  his  interview  was  striking.  There  was  a 
moment's  silence.     Judge  Bacon  remarked,  breaking  it : 

"  I  suspect  that  it  is  all  right  with  Tommy.  iN'o  doubt,  the 
good  Lord  was  merciful." 

"  God's  mercies  and  man's  saving  evidences  are  not  to  be  con- 
founded," said  Parson  Buell.  "All  that  man  can  do  is  to  inquire 
whether,  in  the  judgment  of  charity,  one's  life  or  dying  experience, 
gives  evidence  of  gracious  affections.  Tommy  Taft's  character 
was  marked  with  many  strong  excellences,  b,ut  he  would  be  bold 
who  should  say  that  his  was  a  Christian  life.'' 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  371 

"  But  do  you  not  think  there  is  some  evidence  that,  at  last,  he 
was  led  to  put  faith  in  the  Saviour  ?  "  said  Barton. 

"  My  own  pastoral  visits  developed  nothing  particularly  encour- 
aging," replied  Dr.  Buell.  "  Your  narrative  is  certainly  more  hope- 
ful. Yet,  I  should  speak  of  a  sudden  dying  experience  with  great 
caution.  It  would  be  mischievous  for  men  to  suppose  that  a  whole 
life,  perverse  and  worldly,  can  be  rubbed  out  like  a  slate,  by  a 
momentary  glow  of  feeling,  in  the  last  hour.  I  should  think.  Bar- 
ton, that  his  experience  was  more  a  manifestation  of  affection 
for  you  than  for  his  God." 

"  Since  there  is  no  positive  evidence,"  said  Dr.  "Wentworth, 
"  of  his  condition,  let  ns  charitably  hope  that  the  spark  which 
glowed  at  the  last  was  not  quenched  in  death.  He  humbled  him- 
self to  Barton  for  very  love.  He  followed  him  to  Christ.  True 
love  is  mediatorial.  If  to  any  state  of  mind  God  would  reveal 
himself,  it  would  be  to  love  and  submission.  It  was  not  regular. 
What  repentance  is  ever  logical?  WiU  a  shepherd  refuse  a  re- 
turned sheep  because  it  followed  home  a  bell-wether,  instead  of 
the  shepherd's  own  call  ?  " 

"  I  perceive,  gentlemen,  with  all  due  submission  to  your  superior 
gifts,"  said  Judge  Bacon,  blandly  smiling  and  waving  his  hand  with 
a  gesture  that  seemed  to  put  away  the  whole  discussion,  "  that 
your  wisdom  increases  as  your  knowledge  fails.  Poor  Taft  is 
gone.  That  is  all  you  know  about  it.  But  no  !  You  mount  up 
above  all  facts,  logic,  or  vision,  and  one  weaves  for  him  a  gar- 
ment of  salvation  while  the  other  pulls  out  the  stitches !  Ah, 
what  tailors  of  cloud-clothes  you  would  make !  If  Taft  had  been 
a  deacon,  or  a  minister,  of  course  we  should  have  to  let  him  go 
in.     As  he  was  a  rough  old  sailor,  with  a  hard  tongue " 

Barton  interposed  with  some  slight  asperity : 

"  Do  you  think  that  a  smooth  tongue  and  a  hard  heart  would 
have  served  him  better  than  a  rough  tongue  and  a  warm  heart  ?  " 

"  A  thousand  pardons,  my  young  friend,"  said  the  judge,  ac- 
cepting with  perfect  good  nature  the  implied  comparison, — "  I 
yield,  I  yield.  I  shall  put  Tommy  into  the  calendar,  and  hereafter 
swear  by  St.  Taft.     He  excelled  in  the  grace  of  swearing !  " 

"  I  fear  that  he  was  profane,"  said  Parson  Buell,  "  though  not 
in  my  presence." 

"No?    I  am  surprised!"  returned  the  judge.      "However, 


si 2  Norwood;  or, 

swearing  is  for  the  most  part  a  mere  rhetorical  enforcement — a 
system  of  interjections,  in  bad  taste  because  of  exaggeration. 
There  is  much  pious  swearing.  A  church-member  slips  on  the 
ice,  and  exclaims,    '  goodness,  now ! '    Tommy  Taft  would  have 

said,    *■  d itf^     Both  meant  the  same  thing.     A  bold  man 

means  swear,  and  says  it.  A  timid  man  means  swear,  but  says 
'  gracious ! '  All  interjections  are  swearing,  a  kind  of  latent  oaths, 
are  they  not,  parson?  " 

"  Swear  not  at  all ;  let  your  communication  bQ  yea,  yea  ;  nay, 
nay,"  said  Buell.  "I^To  donbt  many  common  by-words  are  only 
a  sort  of  cowardly  profanity.  But  the  guilt  of  profane  swearing 
is  not  lessened  by  calling  it  an  interjection,  or  by  raising  the  cul- 
pableness  of  by-words." 

"  "Well,  well,  Doctor  or  Minister,  whichever  of  you  conquers, 
I  perceive  that  both  of  you  •m  your  hearts  have  put  Tommy  in 
heaven,  and  that  he  is  as  well  off  as  if  he  had  died  at  a  stake  a 
martyr  for  religion." 

"  By  no  means,"  replied  Buell.  "  There  are  infinite  degrees 
of  excellence  and  of  happiness  in  heaven.  One  may  enter  as  a 
king,  crowned ;  another  enters  *  so  as  by  fire.'  One  emigrant 
may  come  on  to  the  coast  by  shipwreck,  saving  nothing  but  his 
life ;  and  another,  after  a  prosperous  voyage,  lands,  with  his  goods, 
among  friends  that  had  come  over  before  him.  Both  are  safe ; 
but  one  is  a  pauper,  and  the  other  well  advanced  in  society.  Let 
ns  reverently  hope  that  Taft,  at  the  last,  beheld  and  accepted  the 
Saviour.  But  that  by  no  means  places  him  at  the  side  of  those 
whose  earthly  life  was  a  long  career  of  virtue  and  self-denial." 

"Bereavement,"  said  Dr.  Wentworth,  "  is  a  great  heretic.  I 
I  have  found  few  persons  who  do  not  contrive  to  believe  that  their 
friends  are  saved.  It  is  other  people's  friends  that  we  remit  to 
justice.  Our  own  are,  by  some  mediation  of  affection  and  grief, 
rescued.  Indeed  the  Infinite  and  the  Eternal  are  words  without 
meaning  till  grief  interprets  them.  Tears  are  like  chemical 
re-agents, whose  touch  brings  out  colors.  When,  bearing  our  be- 
loved in  our  arms,  we  come  face  to  face  with  eternity,  all  our  rea- 
sonings retreat  into  onr  hearts.  Men  do  not  deny  their  beliefs. 
But  they  will  not  let  them  speak.  Like  light  in  a  sick  room,  they 
must  be  turned  down  and  softened,  and  sometimes,  before  the 
morning  comes,  they  go  out." 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  373 

"  Truth,"  replied  Buell,  "  is  not  less  true  because  our  sympathies 
flow  out  against  it.  The  sun  shines  on  in  spite  of  weak  eyes. 
Has  a  man  aright  to  put  a  bandage  on  his  eyes  and  call  it  sunset? " 

They  had  reached  Dr.  Wentworth's  mansion,  and  all  turned  in 
thither.  It  was  a  bright,  but  coldly  blustering  day.  The 
hickory  fire  cheerily  blazed  on.  the  hearth.  The  conservatory 
door  stood  wide  open,  and  the  eye  discerned  an  artificial  sum- 
mer there,  whose  greenness  and  beauty  was  now,  after  the 
long  winter,  inexpressibly  attractive.  The  azalias  were  coming 
into  bloom.  Exquisite  ferns  of  various  tropical  kinds  grew  with 
luxuriance.  There  was  a  summery  feeling  in  the  room.  Its  light, 
its  warmth,  and  the  sight  of  plants  and  flowers  all  helped  the 
illusion.  A  canary  bird  hanging  in  the  conservatory  sang  merrily, 
and  one  or  two  flies  buzzed  against  the  window,  or  flew  dreamily 
through  the  air.  After  a  long  winter,  a  fly  in  the  house  brings 
with  it  a  sense  of  summer.  If  old  and  torpid,  we  take  it  in  hand, 
blow  warm  breath  upon  it,  put  sugar  before  it.  Imagine  a  man 
doing  all  that  to  a  fly  in  August ! 

Judge  Bacon  could  not  tarry,  and  waited  only  till  the  flowers 
which  the  doctor  was  cutting  for  the  ladies  were  arranged,  and 
then  departed.     But  not  till  he  had  enjoined  all  further  discussion. 

"  When  Buell  and  I  meet  you,  Wentworth,  you  always  seem 
moved  with  talk.  Why,  if  all  that  you  have  discoursed  to  me,  to 
say  nothing  of  Buell,  were  written  in  a  book,  of  what  dimensions 
would  it  already  be !  I  know  very  well  what  you  are  both  think- 
ing o£  Buell  wants  to  say  now  that  your  doctrine  of  Nature  is 
injurious  to  Scripture.  Then  you.  Doctor,  are  full  of  a  reply,  viz. : 
that  the  globe,  but  particularly  the  human  mind,  by  its  best  speci- 
mens, is  a  previous,  or  co-ordinate,  or  auxiliary  revelation.  Then 
Buell  wiU  snap  you  up  with  the  question,  '  Do  you  bring  the  Bible 
down  to  the  level  of  Xature  ? '  and  you  will  answer,  '  No,  I  attempt 
to  raise  nature  up  to  the  level  of  the  Bible.'  Then  he  will  say, 
'  What  do  you  mean  by  Nature?  '  and  you  will  reply,  '  Whatever 
God  has  created,  but  chiefly  the  human  mind.'  Then  Buell  will 
look  very  sober — he  always  does — but  he  will  look  soberer  yet, 
and  trust  that  you  are  not  going  off  into  mere  natural  religion. 
Then  you  will  say  that  you  prefer  natural  to  unnatural  religion. 
He  wiU  then  look  hurt,  and  you  will  grow  dignified.  Then  after 
a  while  Doctor  Buell  will  very  mildly  ask  whether  you  think  the 


374  Norwood  i  or, 

deductions  of  science  are  npon  an  equality  "witli  the  doctrines  of 
Christ?  and  you  ^ill  say  they  are  infinitely  below  them — not 
because  they  are  science,  but  from  the  nature  of  the  truths  them- 
selves, one  relating  to  matter,  and  the  other  to  the  soul.  Where- 
upon he  will  introduce  a  question  in  mental  philosophy,  and  you 
will  snatch  it  away  from  him,  and  then  he  will  get  it  away  from 
you,  until,  before  you  know  it,  the  clock  will  strike  twehe — mid- 
night !  and  then  every  thing  will  be  left  just  as  it  was  before,  to 
be  gone  over  again  at  some  future  meeting. 

"  Ah,  there  is  nothing  so  improving  as  philosophical  discussion ! 
But  my  health  suffers  from  such  luxuries,  and  I  must  deny  myself 
and  bid  you  good  evening."  And  with  a  courtly  manner  the 
judge  bowed  himself  out. 

"  A  most  agreeable  and  discriminating  scoffer,"  said  Dr.  Buell, 
as  the  door  closed. 

"  Oh  no,  not  scoffer,  which  implies  something  bitter  or  malig- 
nant. I  think  he  has  a  conscience,  and  that,  in  spite  of  his  badin- 
age, he  is  not  without  serious  thoughts  and  purposes." 

The  tea  was  announced.  Barton  sat  in  the  place  which  Rose 
usually  occupied.  Dr.  Buell  sat  next  to  Agate  Bissell,  and  the 
children,  great  and  little,  filled  up  the  interstices  between  the 
doctor  and  his  wife.  Barton  gave  some  account  of  his  western 
experiences — some  further  facts  relating  to  Tommy  Taft.  He  ap- 
peared unusually  vivacious.  Dr.  "Wentworth  remarked  afterward 
to  his  wife  that  he  had  never  known  young  Cathcart  to  be  so 
'  buoyant  and  modestly  self-confident.  He  seemed  like  one  who 
had  seen  trouble,  but  had  found  peace. 

Leaving  Dr.  Buell  with  the  ladies — to  whom,  and  to  Agate  in 
particular,  he  was  laying  open  some  plans  for  usefulness — Barton 
and  Dr.  "\7entworth  repaired  to  the  study. 

Barton  began  : 

"  I  do  not  feel,  as  Dr.  Buell  does,  that  your  views  of  God's  use 
of  iTature  as  a  revelation  tend  to  unsettle  faith.  In  my  own  case, 
it  has  led  me  back  to  my  childhood  faith  again.  I  was  brought 
up,  in  effect  though  not  in  theory,  to  look  upon  ISTature  as  some- 
thing dangerous,  having  no  relation  to  religious  feelings,  and 
indeed,  as  a  storehouse  of  infidel  dangers.  I  had  never  heard  a 
minister  employ  nature  as  an  auxiliary  of  the  Bible,  as  if. there 
had  been  not  one,  but  a  converging  series  of  revelations,  all  witr 


Villcif/e  Life  in  New  England.  375 

nessing  to  the  same  truths,  but  in  differing  degrees  of  clearness, 
the  full  light  and  disclosure  coming  in  Christ  Jesus !  " 

The  doctor  ansv\'ered : 

"  And  yet  the  Old  Testament  is  a  storehouse  of  religious  feel- 
ing excited  by  the  objects  in  Nature.  The  Psalms  of  David  play 
upon  all  the  aspects  of  nature  familiar  to  Palestine,  and  summon 
every  living  thing  to  bear  witness  to  God.  But  many  ministers 
seem  to  think  that  Nature  has  a  secret  grudge  against  the  Bible, 
and  they  are  determined  that  they  will  defend  the  Bible  against 
its  insidious  aggressions. 

"In  making  the  world,  many  seem  to  think,  God  saved  up  the 
best  truths,  refusing  to  let  Nature  shadow  them,  reserving  them 
for  a  written  book.  But  Paul  thought  otherwise,  declaring  that 
God  framed  the  world  for  the  purpose  of  revealing  himself 
and  his  government  to  man.  '  For  the  invisible  things  (truths) 
of  Him  are  clearly  seen  from  (in)  the  creation  of  the  world — being 
understood  by  the  things  that  are  made,  even  to  his  eternal 
power  and  Godhead.' " 

"I  am  almost  certain.  Doctor,  that  but  for  your  help  I  should 
have  made  shipwreck  of  my  faith.  I  had  come  to  a  state  in 
which  nothing  was  true  to  me  merely  because  the  Bible  said 
so ;  but  when,  under  your  help,  I  found  the  great  truths  of  the 
Bible  indicated  and  corroborated  in  Nature,  I  was  wonderfully 
strengthened.  Indeed,  I  consider  that  the  turning  point  in  my 
history." 

"  There  are  a  variety  of  influences  which  make  religious  diffi- 
culties almost  a  disease,"  said  Dr.  Wentworth.  "A  person  can- 
not ravel  out  the  threads  of  religious  belief  which  from  his  child- 
hood have  woven  the  figures  of  taste,  fancy,  affection,  and  reason 
itself,  without  doing  a  violence  to  his  nature  which  few  have  the 
strength  to  survive. 

"  The  process  is  itself  destructive,  but  it  is  made  worse  by  the 
odium  attached  to  scepticism — especially  in  New  England,  w^here 
it  is  deemed  the  mother  of  all  immorality.  This  public  sentiment 
is  either  to  be  dared  or  evaded.  If  defied,  it  soon  drives  a  man 
desperate  by  its  inflictions.  If  to  avoid  this,  one  is  prudently  silent, 
his  mind  grows  hot  and  morbid  by  speculations  which  he  supposes 
to  be  purely  intellectual,  whereas  they  are  a  mixture  of  intense 
feelings,  of  fancies,  and  of  unregulated  reasonings — a  medley,  as 
17 


376  Nonvood ;    OVy 

far  from  philosophy  as  possible,  but  peculiarly  well  calculated  to 
produce  morbid  conditions  both  of  body  and  soul." 

Barton  replied : 

"I  need  no  testimony  on  that  point.  I  now  wonder,  as  I  look 
back,  that  my  reason  was  spared.  But  it  was  in  some  respects 
this  very  intensity  of  suffering  that  worked  a  cure.  I  became  sat- 
isfied that  the  reasonings  of  those  men  whose  steps  I  was  following, 
if  carried  forward  legitimately  and  fearlessly,  would  not  stop  with 
discrediting  a  revelation,  but  would  go  on  to  discredit  the  exist- 
ence of  a  God.  The  question  came  home — are  you  prepared  to 
follow  out  your  reasonings,  and  to  give  up  faith  in  the  existence  of 
any  God  ?  Since  no  man  can  prove  that  God  does  not  exist,  I 
found  that  I  should  vibrate  like  a  pendulum  between  Theism  and 
Atheism,  and  that  I  should  have  my  convictions  just  as  little  set- 
tled as  before,  only  I  should  be  unsettled  in  a  different  place ;  I 
should  be  acting  in  that  remote  region  just  as  uncertainly  and  in- 
sincerely as  before  I  had  sacrificed  my  Christian  faith." 

"  Certain  natures  must  ferment,"  said  Dr.  Went  worth.  "  Tliey 
do  not  become  clear  or  deep  till  after  a  process  of  that  kind.  But 
I  have  noticed  a  great  many  men  who  went  no  further  than  to  drop 
their  faith  in  Christianity,  which,  as  it  is  now  held,  represents  not 
only  the  mere  words  of  Christ,  but  all  the  experiences  which  have 
since  sprung  from  these  words,  in  good  men,  and  so  is  the  substance 
and  epitome  of  all  the  moral  good  which  the  world  has  learned. 
They  were  not  honest  enough  to  go  on  with  their  principles  to  the 
logical  result,  and  became  torpid  or  frivolous  skeptics,  without 
moral  depth  or  moral  honesty." 

— "It  was  at  the  point  of  this  rebound  in  me,  from  the  dark- 
ness and  horror  of  atheism,  that  I  was  helped, to  a  degree  of  which 
you  were  never  conscious,  by  an  almost  accidental  train  of  conver- 
sation illustrating  the  difference  between  the  essential  truths  of 
revelation  and  the  vehicles  of  these  truths.  I  had  been  sticking  at 
a  great  many  of  the  so-called  difficulties  of  the  scriptures,  I  pricked 
up  my  ears  at  your  illustrations.  You  said,  '  If  a  messenger  were 
to  come  to  a  poor  man,  saying,  "  I  bear  in  my  hand  the  will  of  a 
relative  of  your  mother's.  He  has  left  you  an  estate,  and  here  are 
the  documents  which  will  put  you  in  possession," — a  sensible  man 
would  at  once,  upon  a  tolerably  fair  showing,  take  the  documents 
and  test  them.     He  would  see  if  they  had  been  recorded  ;  if  there 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England.  377 

was  such  property ;  if,  upon  presenting  his  claims,  it  was  made 
over  to  him.  But  what  if,  instead  of  regarding  possessioji  as  the 
best  argument  in  favor  of  the  genuineness  of  the  wUl,  he  should 
indicate  his  phUosophj  and  shrewdness  by  picking  flaws  with  the 
grammar,  quarrelling  with  the  messenger,  instituting  a  special  plea 
on  the  doctrine  of  probabilities  in  the  case  ? '  Out  of  that  view 
came  great  relief  to  me.  I  said,  '  Here  is  the  will  and  Testament 
of  my  Father.  Let  me  take  possession  of  the  contents  rather  than 
criticise  them.'  I  considered  the  ISTew  Testament  ideal  of  human 
life — its  pattern  of  character,  its  delineation  of  the  ends  of  a  true 
life,  its  code  of  moral  sentiments — and  said  to  myself,  '  Is  there  any 
thing  nobler  than  this?  Has  nature  any  thing  better  to  teach  me? ' 
I  considered  the  conception  formed  in  Scripture  of  God,  his  univer- 
sal Fatherhood,  his  Kemedial  iTature  as  manifested  in  Christ,  the 
whole,  as  it  now  seems  to  me,  a  marvellous  and  transcendent 
picture  of  excellence ;  and  I  contrasted  this  positive,  effulgent 
sympathetic  Being,  with  that  uncertain,  protean,  pulseless,  soulless 
Solitude  which  Pantheism  and  Atheism  call  God.  The  contrast 
was  salutary.  It  really  brought  my  pride  and  my  moral  sense 
over  on  to  the  ground  of  my  childhood  belief!  It  seemed  to  me 
that  such  fruit  could  be  found  growing  nowhere  else,  and  that  to 
refuse  it  was  as  if  a  man  should  refuse  oranges  because  the  tree 
was  crooked,  or  the  bark  diseased,  or  the  thorns  too  long  and  too 
sharp. 

"  In  connection  with  this,  came  to  my  relief  this  view  :  '  I  am 
undertaking  to  construct  a  theory  of  the  universe  as  the  condition 
precedent  to  my  own  life.  But  I  have  a  personal  duty.  I  have  to 
develop  a  character,  to  perform  my  part  in  society,  to  be  a  man 
among  men.  Am  I  at  liberty  to  defer  this  until  I  have  put  Time, 
History  and  the  Globe  to  analysis  and  synthesis  ?  If  right  living  is 
immediate,  urgent,  the  duty  of  to-day,  then  I  must  take  the  best 
ideals  that  exist,  and  work  them  out.'  But  that  view  brought  me 
right  back  to  the  New  Testament,  and  I  could  not  help  saying  to 
myself,  '  What  book  is  this  which  an  earnest  man,  desiring  to  live 
a  high  and  noble  life,  finds  at  every  turn  supplying  him  with  the 
very  elements  which  he  needs  ?     Is  it  not  the  Book  of  Life  ? ' 

"  There  came,  finally,  one  experience  further.  "When  I  was 
most  imbued  with  the  truth  as  I  found  it  in  Christ,  most  tender 
in  my  feelings,  I  seemed  to  have,  on  various  occasions,  borne  in 


378  Nor  wood. 

upon  me  a  tide  of  influences  which.  I  could  account  for  on  no  theory 
of  ordinary  causation,  and  which  I  have  come  to  believe  was  di- 
vine.    The  spirit  was  promised.     To  me  it  has  been  fulfilled. 

"  I  have  not  got  beyond  difficulties.  I  cannot  answer  certain 
technical  questions  arising  in  my  mind  respecting  Revelation.  I 
am  more  than  dubious  of  much  of  the  philosophy  in  which  religious 
truth  is  clothed  in  the  pulpit.  But  this  I  know — I  have  found  the 
road  to  Manhood ;  I  know  my  duty  to  society  ;  I  have  a  sure  faith 
in  immortality ;  I  behold  the  glory  of  a  God  worthy  to  be  praised. 
I  accept  as  my  guide,  friend  and  Saviour,  his  Son,  the  Redeemer  of 
the  world.  And  I  believe  that  he  gives  forth  to  me  the  Holy 
Spirit.  I  never  could  have  said  as  much  as  'this  to  any  one  but  to 
you.  For  you,  sir,  have  had  more  influence  in  restraining  my 
aberration,  and  in  establishing  points  of  cure  in  me,  than  all 
others." 

A  pause  followed  this  conversation.  Tears  rolled  down  the 
doctor's  face.  The  clock  on  the  mantel  chimed  the  hour.  The 
fire  snapped  and  showered  its  sparks  up  the  chimney.  There  needed 
no  words.     Silence  is  sometimes  the  most  perfect  communion. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

CnAXGE     OF     LATITUDE. 

It  was  on  an  overcast  day  early  in  March  that  Heywood  entered 
Charleston  harbor.  It  was  not  that  low  and  smothering  cloudi- 
ness which  shuts  in  and  diminishes  a  prospect,  but  one  of  those 
gray,  lowering  skies  which  cause  every  thing  to  loom  up  and  to 
seem  larger  and  grander  than  they  appear  in  the  white  flat  light 
of  the  sun.  Heywood  was  on  deck,  and  as  the  channel  carried 
them  nearly  parallel  with  Morris  Island,  the  captain  pointed  out 
the  lines  of  batteries  that  were  night  and  day  in  process  of  con- 
struction. For  Major  Anderson,  on  the  26th  of  December,  1860, 
acting  upon  his  own  military  judgment,  had  abandoned  Fort  Moul- 
trie, upon  Sullivan's  Island,  on  the  north  side  of  the  harbor,  and 
had  conveyed  his  whole  force  to  Sumter,  a  fort  rising  on  every  side 
right  out  of  the  water,  and  not  accessible  to  assault,  as  was  Fort 
Moultrie  from  its  land  side.  This  judicious  movement  took  the 
authorities  by  surprise.  Had  Beauregard  been  then  in  command 
in  Charleston,  it  is  hardly  possible  that  the  opportunity  would  have 
been  left  open  for  Major  Anderson  to  secure  a  position  far  better 
suited  to  the  number  of  his  men  than  Moultrie,  in  better  repair, 
and  removed  from  all  danger  of  surprise. 

The  surprise  at  this  movement  was  the  greater  because  it 
had  been  believed  that  Major  Anderson,  a  Southerner  by  birth, 
would  ultimately  come  over  to  the  Southern  cause ;  or,  at  any  rate, 
perform  his  duty  in  such  a  manner  as  not  to  molest  the  plans  of 
the  Confederacy. 

To  reduce  Fort  Sumter  would  require  the  erection  of  many 
batteries.  No  other  spot  in  the  harbor  of  Charleston  could  have 
been  selected  where  a  fort  that  commanded  the  entrance  could  be 
itself  so  dominated  from  every  side  by  batteries  on  the  shore. 

As  the  steamer  neared  this  fort,  all  eyes  were  turned  toward 
this  centre  of  attraction,  and  opinions  were  exchanged  among  of- 
ficers and  passengers  as  to  the  probable  fate  of  its  garrison.  So 
little  was  then  known  of  war,  and  especially  of  improved  artillery, 
that  the  most  extravagant  opinions  were  expressed  both  on  the 


,S80  Norwood ;  or, 

one  side  and  on  the  other.  Ileywood  felt  the  tears  rising  to  his 
eyes  as  he  looked  upon  the  stars  and  stripes  waving  over  the  fort. 
His  soul  revolted  against  the  folly  and  crime  of  those  who  should 
dare  to  touch  that  sacred  emblem  of  the  country's  glory !  As  he 
stood  gazing,  he  unconsciously  said  aloud,  "  God  keep  thee,  flag 
of  my  fathers  !  " 

"You,  a  Virginian,"  said  the  captain,  "and  praying  for  that 
Northern  flag  ?  I  am  a  Southern  man,  and  if  I  lived  in  Charleston 
I  would  have  that  rag  down  as  soon  as  powder  and  shot  could  fetch 
it  down !  You'll  see  that  palmetto  flag  yonder  waving  over  these 
bricks  before  many  weeks !  " 

Heywood  turned  to  look  at  the  flag  toward  which  the  captain 
pointed  as  he  spoke.  It  was  too  distant  to  be  clearly  discerned. 
But,  through  the  captain's  glass  he  saw  over  Castle  Pinckney,  and 
now  over  Moultrie,  the  State  flag  of  South  Carolina.  His  heart 
sickened.  He  turned  and  walked  away.  The  gray  sky — the  dark 
and  scowling  water — signs  of  a  coming  storm — all  seemed  to  him 
in  keeping  with  the  events  transpiring.  To  himself  he  said: 
*'Have  I  lived  to  see  the  day  when  the  government  and  its  flag 
will  be  assailed  with  war?  Do  I  dream?  Or  is  this  a  hideous 
reality  ?  Well  may  the  heaven  hide  its  brightness,  and  the  storm 
wail.     A  mightier  storm  will  soon  burst?  " 

Heywood  soon  landed  and  repaired  to  his  hotel ;  nor  did  he 
regret  that  the  day  and  night  were  stormy,  as  he  desired  to  get 
settled  in  his  quarters  before  going  out  or  presenting  his  letters. 
On  rising  the  next  morning  his  senses  were  soothed  and  delighted 
with  the  fragrance  of  the  air  and  the  genial  temperature  of  the 
atmosphere.  It  almost  shakes  one's  sense  of  personal  identity  to 
be  changed  by  a  short  voyage  of  a  few  days  from  snows  and  frosts 
into  the  midst  of  growing  gardens  and  blossoming  fields.  Early 
March  here  answered  to  late  May  in  ISTew  England.  The  roses 
and  honeysuckles  were  in  blossom.  Even  his  Yirginian  home  had 
no  such  luxuriant  growths  as  he  witnessed  here.  The  Lamarque 
rose,  the  Chromatella,  the  various  Koisettes  and  Tea  roses  which 
he  had  been  wont  to  see  grown  under  glass,  or,  if  out  of  doors, 
subject  every  winter  to  frosts  which  pruned  them  to  the  ground, 
here  grew  from  year  to  year  in  open  gardens,  becoming  large  and 
luxuriant,  and  hanging  in  clusters  of  magnificent  buds  and  blos- 
soms in  wonderful  profusion. 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  381 

He  strolled  through  the  streets  to  gain  some  general  idea  of  the 
city.  The  finest  dwellings,  however,  seemed  half  hidden  by  high 
brick  walls  around  the  yards.  C  /er  the  tops  hung  many  a  vine, 
or  clump  of  climbing  rose.  !N"ow  and  then  some  open  gate,  or 
some  more  generous  and  open  fence,  enabled  him  to  look  through 
and  see  beds  of  early  bulbs  in  full  blossom,  the  long  glossy  leaves 
of  laurel,  the  deep  green  and  polished  leaves  of  the  Pettisporum, 
and  the  Cape  Jessamine. 

The  air  was  delicious.  It  was  perfumed  and  balmy.  Heywood 
strolled  on  from  street  to  street  in  the  early  morning  with  unaf- 
fected delight.  Suddenly  he  was  challenged  by  a  sentinel,  and 
warned  off  from  bounds  which  he  was  just  crossing.  It  was  a 
camp  of  Georgia  troops  just  come  from  Savannah.  His  heart 
sickened.  "With  hastening  steps  he  returned  to  his  hotel.  The 
front  was  already  swarming  with  citizens,  and  among  them  many 
military  men.  He  began  fully  to  realize  that  Charleston  was  a 
foreign  city  !  He  was  in  his  own  land  and  yet  not  under  his  own 
government !  He  was,  however,  not  regarded  as  a  stranger.  Not 
only  was  his  father  known,  but  his  zeal  in  the  cause  of  the  State 
was  known  also ;  and  young  Heywood,  on  presenting  his  letters, 
found  himself  welcomed  to  the  best  society  of  the  city.  It  was 
taken  for  granted  that  a  young  Virginian  of  such  lineage  as  his, 
would  cast  in  his  lot  with  instant  enthusiasm  with  the  exultant 
and  glorious  movement  for  Southern  independence.  But  he  can 
best  teU  his  own  experience  in  a  sort  of  journal  letter  which  he 
kept  for  Judge  Bacon,  who  leaned  to  the  Southern  views  far  more 
than  did  any  of  Hey  wood's  other  friends,  and  who,  therefore,  was 
relied  upon  for  advice  with  more  confidence  than  they  would  be 
whose  identification  with  the  North  would  of  necessity  give  one 
color  to  all  their  counsel. 

*  *  *  "  You  can  imagine  the  state  of  feeling  here  by  noth- 
ing which  you  read  or  hear  in  the  North.  It  was  the  opinion  of 
many  in  Massachusetts  that  much  that  was  done  and  said  here 
was  merely  for  political  effect.  I  confess  to  have  had  the  same 
notion ;  but  I  have  it  no  longer.  These  people  are  in  terrible 
earnest.  I  do  not  seem  to  myself  to  be  in  the  same  country  or 
nation  as  when  at  the  North.  If  every  man  I  met  talked  to  me 
in  a  foreign  language,  he  would  hardly  be  more  an  alien.  No- 
where in  the  city  or  harbor,  except  at  Fort  Sumter,  is  the  flag  of 


382  Norwood ;  or, 

the  United  States  flying  ;  everywhere  it  is  the  Palmetto  flag !  The 
people  are  intensely  exhilarated — there  is  no  resisting  such  a 
current.  I  am  no  more  a  secessionist  than  I  was  in  [Norwood; 
and  yet,  as  every  one  takes  it  for  granted  that  I  am  heart  and  soul 
with  him,  I  reproach  myself  with  my  insincerity  or  moral  coward- 
ice. Evei'y  night,  when  I  reflect  on  the  whirl  and  excitement  of 
the  day,  I  am  ashamed  that  I  do  not  show  my  colors.  But  one 
must  be  brave  indeed  who  would  deliberately  leap  into  the  fire. 
It  would  be  scarcely  less  than  this  to  avow  sincere  attachment  to 
the  Union.  I  have  seen  one  act  of  ferocity  and  heard  of  others, 
which  for  the  sake  of  the  South  I  w^ill  not  repeat.  But  I  am  de- 
termined, at  all  hazards,  to  state  to  some  of  the  leading  gentlemen 
my  true  convictions.  .;<**** 

"  Since  I  have  made  known  to  my  father's  friends  my  Union- 
ism, if  it  were  possible,  I  am  treated  with  more  cordiality  than 
ever.  I  am  not  only  invited  to  social  gatherings  and  made  much 
of,  but  my  friends  take  me  with  them  to  their  political  consulta- 
tions. I  am  thus  put  in  possession  of  the  secret  counsels  of  the 
leading  Southern  men.  I  am  in  despair  of  the  Union,  in  so  far  as 
South  Carolina  is  concerned.  And  the  letters  and  messages  from 
other  States  seem  to  give  assurance  of  cordial  cooperation.  My 
future  looks  dark  to  me.  ^h  *  »i<  « 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  been  with  me  last  night !  I  have  had 
the  inside  view.  I  am  less  sanguine  of  future  union  than  ever. 
After  much  importunity,  Major  Anderson  has  consented  to  send 
an  ofl&cer  to  Washington,  with  a  committee  of  citizens,  to  induce 
the  Government  to  withdi-aw  its  troops  from  the  fort.  Lieut. 
Hallistbe  oflicer.  But  he  says  distinctly  to  the  committee  that 
he  shall  advise  his  Government  to  maintain  their  possession  of  the 
fort.  In  hope  of  changing  his  view,  and  of  convincing  him  that 
there  is  no  chance  whatever  of  Union,  and  that  secession  is  a  fact 
accomplished  and  ended,  the  managers  here  last  night  arranged  a 
meeting  for  conference,  and  as  my  case  needed  treatment  also,  I 
was  brought  in. 

"  Mr.  — said,  frankly,  at  the  opening   of  the  conference, 

that  he  should  speak  without  disguise.  It  was  something  in  this 
wise: 

"  'The  people  of  the  Xorth  and  South  are  essentially  different. 
There  is  no  hope  of  their  assimilation.     Their  climate,  industries, 


Villacje  Life  in  New  England,  383 

political  opinions,  social  customs,  cause,  and  will  maintain,  these 
differences.  It  is  useless  to  try  and  conduct  a  Government  togeth- 
er. Perpetual  disagreement  and  jangling  must  follow.  That 
the  leading  thoughtful  political  men  of  South  Carolina  had  long 
been  satisfied  of  the  soundness  of  these  views.  Tliat  they  were 
fully  determined  at  all  hazards  to  separate  fro7n  the  Xorth.  It  was 
not  a  sudden  freak,  but  a  matured  purpose.  "Was  it  not  better 
then,  instead  of  patching,  or  dosing  a  desperate  case,  to  yield  to 
the  inevitable  ?  That  no  compromise  was  possible,  simply  be- 
cause there  were  no  special  grievances  which  the  South  need 
complain  of.  That,  to  speak  frankly,  their  grievances  had  been 
urged  merely  as  the  method  of  holding  their  people,  but  that  the 
thinking  men  did  not  regard  them  as  of  any  value.  But  the  real 
motive  lay  in  the  prospect  of  a  future  which  could  not  be  realized 
without  separation.  To  make  new  arrangements,  to  devise  peace 
measures,  concessions,  compromises,  was  to  prescribe  for  the 
wrong  disease.  The  South  really  had  no  grievances  whatever. 
That  it  had  ambitions,  and  was  determined  to  realize  them.- 
Under  these  circumstances,  and  in  view  of  these  disclosures,  was 
it  not  wise  for  Lieut.  Hall  to  join  with  the  committee  in  saying  to 
the  Government  at  Washington  that  the  stay  of  troops  in  the  har- 
bor could  serve  no  useful  purpose  ? ' 

"  I  do  not  know  what  Lieut.  Hall  will  do,  but  my  eyes  are 
open.  Can  it  be  that  these  things  are  true  beyond  the  bounds  of 
South  Carolina?  lam  sure  that  in  my  own  State  it  is  not  so. 
Virginia  is  true  to  the  Union.  But  what  if  the  flames  that  are 
here  kindled  should  spread  ?  What  if  my  own  State  should  go 
with  the  seven  already  seceded  ?  Can  I  fight  against  my  own 
State  ?  Can  I  join  my  kindred  and  fight  against  the  Government? 
Can  I  remain  neutral,  and  let  this  great  issue  be  settled  by  others, 
striking  neither  for  the  Union  nor  for  my  State  ? 

"  March  25. ■ — I  have  been  making  a  tour  of  the  batteries  with 
Gen.  Beauregard.  If  I  had  ever  thought  that  Sumter  could  long 
resist  the  bombardment  which  threatens  her,  I  should  be  disabrsed 
of  such  opinions  after  seeing  what  I  have  to-day  !  Every  point  of 
land  from  which  a  battery  can  be  made  to  bear  on  Sumter  has 
been  seized.  Great  numbers  of  men  are  perfecting  the  works. 
Huge  cannon  are  lying  under  cover  and  waiting  the  completion  of 
the  works.  In  many  batteries  cannon  are  already  mounted.  In 
17* 


384  Norwood ;  or, 

Fort  Moultrie,  the  artillery  destroyed  by  the  garrison  when  they 
took  possession  of  Fort  Sumter,  has  been  replaced.  Every  thing 
is  approaching  completion.  March  is  wearing  away ;  April  is 
just  at  hand.  Every  effort  has  been  made  to  induce  Mr.  Lincoln 
to  withdraw  the  garrison,  and  thus  avoid  a  collision.  But  I  am 
told  that  he  is  obstinate,  not  to  say  deceitful.  Again  and  again,  • 
he  has  either  promised,  or  left  upon  those  who  have  visited  him 
the  impression  that  a  promise  was  given  ;  yet  the  flag  waves  thero 
— a  defiance  to  the  Confederate  flags  which  fly  from  the  beleaguer- 
ing forts  and  batteries. 

"As  I  stood  upon  the  parapet  of  Fort  Johnson  this  afternoon, 
the  wind  freshened  and  rolled  out  the  flag  from  over  Fort  Sumter 
with  that  peculiar  motion  which  gives  one  a  feeling  that  there  is 
life  in  the  flag,  and  that  it  stretches  out  its  arms  from  some  voli- 
tion of  its  own.  It  lifted  itself  from  its  drooping  position,  half 
disclosed  its  form,  and  then  languidly  relapsed  again.  Again,  and 
with  more  impetus,  it  raised  itself,  rolling  out  heavily  in  a  series 
of  convolutions,  as  if  it  felt  an  inward  struggle  or  spasm.  It 
drooped  again.  Then,  though  I  felt  no  quickening  wind  where  I 
stood,  it  was  plain  that  a  current  moved  high  in  the  air,  in  which, 
with  a  certain  calm  force,  it  was  lifted  up  and  stretched  out  at  full, 
with  all  its  stripes  displayed,  and  so  it  held  itself  without  recoil  or 
droop. 

'•I  inwardly  said,  '  So  it  shall  be.  After  some  struggles  the 
banner  shall  stand  at  last,  spread  abroad  in  full  glory !  ' 

"Beauregard,  too,  had  watched  the  same  scene.  I  know  not 
what  his  thoughts  were.  He  seemed  pensive.  There  is  a  singu- 
lar combination  in  his  expression.  His  face  is  duE,  his  eyes  fiery, 
so  that  his  whole  countenance  is  like  ashes,  with  fire  raked  up  be- 
neath it. 

"  With  some  emphasis  he  said  : 

"  '  It  shall  not  fly  there  long.' 

"  I  asked  him  whether  it  did  not  pain  him  to  do  violence  to 
the  flag  under  which  he  had  been  reared  ?  He  paused,  as  one  does 
who  analyzes  his  feelings  before  speaking  : 

"  '  In  our  fathers'  day  that  was  the  flag  of  the  Union.  But  it 
has  been  made  sectional  by  N"orthern  fanaticism.  It  no  longer  sug- 
gests protection  and  friendship,  but  injustice  and  aggression.  We 
look   upon  it  as  it  is,  not  as   it  was.      And   yet,  si*,   if  Major 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  385 

Anderson  would  evacuate  the  fort,  and  relieve  this  harbor  of  tho 
threat  implied  in  his  presence  here,  I  should  be  saved  a  painful 
necessity.' 

" '  Then  you  do  not  sympathize  with  those  who  wish  ^o  humble 
the  North?' 

"  '  I  sympathize  with  those  who  believe  that  a  new  empire  is 
♦trising !  I  care  nothing  for  the  North.  Let  them  have  their  way. 
We  mean  to  fulfil  our  destiny.  All  nature  has  conspired  to  make 
this  southern  realm  a  grand  empire.  The  climate  is  perfect.  It  is 
a  garden  on  the  pattern  of  a  continent !  We  have  an  industry 
which  will  enrich  the  world — ^but  ourselves  first  and  most.  Ours 
is  not  a  rude  and  clumsy  slavery  like  that  of  antiquity.  It  com- 
bines in  it  the  patriarchal  simplicity  of  the  Hebrew  and  the  fine 
organization  of  the  Eoman.  The  negro  not  held  in  slavery  spreads 
out  like  a  torpid  swamp  and  poisons  the  land  with  laziness.  "We 
have  forced  him  into  channels — converted  him,  as  it  were,  into  a 
river,  with  a  regular  current,  turning  a  thousand  mills.  Our 
people,  relieved  from  drudgery,  tave  leisure  for  refinement  and 
public  administration.  Here  is  to  be  a  new  era — an  epoch  in  civ- 
ilization. In  a  hundred  years  the  great  schools  of  science  and  of 
painting,  the  colleges  and  universities  of  America  will  be  here ! 
"When  I  see  that  flag  standing  in  the  way  of  all  this  glorious  prog- 
ress, and  forbidding  it,  I  would  fire  upon  it  if  it  were  thrice  as 
glorious  as  it  has  been,  but  has  ceased  to  be ! ' 

"  I  think  he  was  sincere.  He  is  an  enthusiast.  He  has  the  air 
of  a  man  who  has  great  self-confidence  and  is  not  unwilling  to  ex- 
press it.  On  that  account  he  is  fit  to  represent  the  South  Caro- 
linians. They  are  certainly  eager,  opinionative,  and  prodigiously 
confident.     I  inquired: 

*"  "Will  it  be  a  difficult  task  to  breach  the  fort,  and  likely  to  be 
attended  with  much  loss  of  life  ? ' 

"  He  replied: 

"  '  "We  and  they  are  well  protected  from  artillery  fire.  Ander- 
son is  a  good  officer  and  will  not  expose  his  men.  If  blood  is  spilt, 
it  will  be  in  storming  after  the  fort  is  breached.' 

" '  "Will  raw  troops  be  serviceable  in  so  desperate  an  enterprise 
as  assailing  a  breach  ? ' 

" '  Sir,  the  Southerner  is  a  natural  soldier !  His  courage  is 
8uch,  by  nature,  that  it  is  hardly  a  credit  to  him  to  be  brave,  any 


386  Norwood ;  or, 

more  than  for  a  horse  to  be  strong,  or  a  hound  s  .rift.  The  ITorth- 
ern  man  is  dull,  slow,  peaceful.  If  ever,  it  will  be  years  before  he 
learns  to  fight.  The  Southern  soldier  is  quick,  fiery,  intense,  over- 
whelming.    "We  shall  sweep  every  thing  before  us ! ' 

" '  Is  there  no  way  of  avoiding  actual  conflict  ?  Might  not  the 
fort  be  starved  out?  I  am  told  that  the  garrison  are  not  permitted 
to  draw  provisions  any  longer  from  Charleston.' 

"  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  would  defer  operations,  provided 
Anderson  would  state  the  day  when  want  of  pro\'isions  would 
compel  him  to  surrender ;  at  any  rate,  if  it  were  a  near  day.' 

"  '  I  am  sure  he  would.  He  is  an  honorable  and  Christian  gen- 
tleman. I  would  cheerfully  undertake  the  mission.  I  am  a  South- 
ern man,  but  I  am  opposed  utterly  to  forcing  this  issue  by  arms.' 

"  '  This  is  beyond  my  province.  You  must  get  authority  from 
Montgomery,  or  from  Gov.  Pickens.' 

"  Filled  with  this  errand,  I  desired  to  hasten  back  to  Charleston. 
The  sun  was  already  low  down  in  the  west,  and  flamed  across  the 
harbor  with  wonderful  beauty.  The  channel  guard-boats  were 
under  way  to  their  night-watch  on  the  bar,  that  no  vessels  might 
steal  in  for  the  relief  of  the  fort.  To  the  seaward,  the  harbor 
opened  out  grandly.  The  atmosphere,  the  setting  sun,  the  meet- 
ing of  the  harbor  with  the  ocean,  gave  a  largeness  to  the  scene 
which  filled  my  heart  with  admiration.  As  I  was  looking,  the 
sun  sank.  Then  Sumter  fired  a  gun,  and  the  flag  slowly  and 
gracefully  descended.  In  rapid  succession,  the  flag  over  our  head, 
that  of  Fort  Moultrie,  of  Castle  Pinckney,  and  of  every  fort  and 
battery  around  the  harbor,  came  silently  down,  and  twilight 
seemed  like  a  peacemaker !  All  the  tokens  of  defiance  and  war 
were  wrapped  in  quick-coming  darkness.  The  little  steamer  on 
which  we  returned  sped  toward  the  city,  whose  outlines  were  lost 
in  the  dusk,  but  painted  again  in  the  lights  which  shot  out  along 
either  shore  and  from  beyond  the  White  Point  Garden.  The  few 
craft  that  lay  off  at  anchor  showed  each  a  solitary  light.  TVe  saw 
them,  shot  past  them,  and  left  them  behind,  in  the  same  moment. 
My  heart  was  happy  in  the  strange  hope  that  I  might  at  least  con- 
tribute in  a  small  degree  to  avert  a  collision. 

"  Without  delay  I  sooght  out  Gov.  Pickens  and  suggested  the 
plan.  He  met  me  cordially,  but  hesitated  on  hearing  ray  errand. 
He  spoke  of  consulting  the  Government  at  Montgomery. 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England.  387 

"  'But,  sir,  if  South  Carolina  is  sovereign  enough  to  withdraw 
from  the  Union,  and  to  repel  the  soldiers  of  the  Union  from  her 
shores,  she  is  sovereign  enough  to  negotiate  a  peaceful  evacuation 
of  Fort  Sumter.' 

"  *  Oh,  there's  authority  enough.  I  would  take  it  anyhow ; 
hut  it  may  not  be  expedient.' 

"  '  Expedient !     I  do  not  understand  you.' 

"  '  "Well,  to  be  plain,  it  may  be  necessary  to  come  to  blows  for 
political  considerations.  If  all  the  Southern  States  would  promptly 
move  into  line,  we  could  get  along  without  bloodshed.  But  then 
we  have  but  six  or  seven,  out  of  fifteen,  that  have  acted.  This 
sluggishness  will  ruin  us.  We  can't  afford  to  wait.  If  the  tide 
slacks  and  turns  it  will  carry  all  our  hopes  out  to  sea  with  it, 
never  to  return ;  but  once  let  the  Government  at  Washington  fire 
one  gun  upon  ship  or  man,  and  that  flash  will  set  on  fire  the 
whole  South  !  Some  of  us  are  in  favor  of  bringing  on  the  issue 
by  striking  ;  others,  by  waiting  till  we  are  struck.  By  noon  to- 
morrow I  shall  know.  Come  then  and  I  will  see  you.  Meantime, 
our  friends  are  in  the  parlors  to-night.  The  sons  of  Virginia  are 
always  welcome  in  Charleston  ! ' 

"  I  plead  fatigue,  and  hastened  back  to  my  lodgings,  and  have 
saved  my  self  from  many  unpleasant  musings  by  writing  this  account 
to  you. 

"  The  clouds  are  very  dark.  While  I  was  in  Norwood  I 
thought  them  wind-clouds,  of  threatening  look  and  harmless  con- 
tents. Now  they  are  lurid  with  fire,  and  portend  terrible  disaster, 
if  some  happy  expedient  does  not  succeed  in  conveying  the  elec- 
tricity silently  to  the  ground  ! 

"  The  whole  city  is  feverish  and  inflammable.  It  seems  to  me 
that  a  spark  would  explode  the  community.  Moderation  is  un- 
known. It  is  dangerous  not  to  bum  and  glow  with  hatred  of  the 
Union.  To  resist  secession  would  be  fatal.  I  keep  aloof  from  all 
but  a  select  few,  and  their  prominent  position,  their  very  leader- 
ship in  this  disruptive  movement,  gives  me  standing  and  character, 
which  I  maintain  by  holding  my  peace,  and  so  get  the  additionaJ 
credit  of  being  deep  and  cautious ! ' 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

BOMBAEDMEXT   OF    FORT    SUAITEE.— HEYWOOD's    LETTER 

COXTIXUED. 

"  April  10. — I  am  informed  to-day,  by  Governor  Pickens,  that 
he  has  word  from  the  Government  at  "Washington,  that  provisions 
are  to  be  sent  to  Fort  Sumter  at  all  hazards,  and  that  he  has  com- 
municated the  same  to  his  Government  at  Montgomery.  There  is 
great  excitement.  I  urged  the  plan  already  mentioned  Anderson 
cannot  hold  out  many  days.  Starvation  wiU  give  the  fort  into 
their  hands  full  as  soon  as  artillery  can.  Unless  bloodshed  is 
needed  for  some  political  purpose,  I  cannot  imagine  a  reason  for 
bombarding.  Meanwhile  the  city  swarms  with  troops  arriving 
with  every  train,  while  those  hitherto  camping  here  have  been  dis- 
tributed to  the  forts  and  batteries.  Business  is  almost  dead.  It 
seems  like  a  military  holiday.  The  current  for  secession  and  a 
Southern  Republic  rushes  like  a  mighty  stream.  Nothing  can  stay 
it,  and  nothing  resist.  It  amounts,  if  not  to  a  phrensy,  yet  to  an 
irresistible  enthusiasm.  Every  one  is  exhilarated.  The  most  ex- 
travagant pictures  are  drawn  of  the  future  of  this  new  empire. 
Last  night  I  heard  several  of  the  leading  men  and  managers  of 
affairs  discussing  the  prospect.  '  Bombard  the  fort — commit  tljo 
State  irrevocably  by  shedding  blood.  The  Government  at  Wash- 
ington cannot  do  less  than  to  threaten  coercion.  The  first  step 
in  that  direction  will  bring  every  cotton-growing  State  to  our 
side.  If  the  coDflict  begins,  even  the  border  States  must  come  to 
this  side.  Against  such  a  front  no  war  will  ever  be  made.'  Turn- 
ing to  me,  one  of  the  gentlemen  said :  '  You  shrink  at  the  shedding 
of  blood.  Is  it  not  better,  by  the  loss  of  a  few  lives,  and  the  con- 
solidation thereby  of  fifteen  States,  to  prevent  war^  than  by  tempor- 
izing to  go  at  length  into  a  conflict  which,  though  not  doubtful  in 
issue,  will  sacrifice  hundreds,  and  it  may  be  thousands  of  lives  ? 
Even  humanity  would  dictate  decisive  measures.' 

"I  replied:  'I  think,  gentlemen,  that  you  mistake  the  whole 
feeling  of  the  i^orth.  If  the  flag  is  fired  upon  there  wUl  be  war. 
If  tbere  is  war,  you  must  prepare  yourselves  for  a  long  and  terrible 


Village  Life  i?i  New  England,  3£0 

one.  The  South  will  not  yield  easily.  The  Kortl/  will  be  even 
more  tenacious.' 

"Some  of  the  gentlemen  were  curious  to  know  more  of  my 
opinion  of  the  North,  which  I  gave.  But  the  majority  laughed  to 
scorn  the  idea  of  Northern  courage.  What  is  most  singular  is,  that 
the  men  who  most  doubt  Northern  fighting  qualities  were  them- 
selves from  the  North,  or  were  born  of  Northern  parents !  One  or 
two  fiery  spirits  declared,  that  with  a  thousand  picked  men,  they 
could  march  from  Charleston  to  New  York ;  that  there  were  more 
in  number  in  the  North  who  would  greet  them  than  would  fight, 
and  that  in  less  than  a  year  peace  would  be  established.  The 
meeting  broke  up,  and  as  we  walked  together,  I  again  and  with 
warmth  urged  upon  Governor  Pickens  to  use  his  influence  to  pre- 
vent actual  hostilities.  I  know  not  why,  with  my  sentiments 
plainly  disclosed,  I  am  treated  with  so  much  confidence  by  gentle- 
men who  are  in  the  most  secret  councils  of  secession.  But  so  it  is. 
He  replied  to  my  importunity  : 

" '  Hey  wood,  I  honor  your  fidelity  to  your  convictions,  and  I 
do  not  wonder  at  your  opinions  respecting  the  North.  Yet,  you 
are  Southern,  and  you  will  be  obliged  to  join  us.  Events  will 
prove  stronger  than  men's  wills.' 

"  'But  not,  I  trust,  than  men's  principles.' 

"  'AH  honest  men  agree  in  principles.  It  is  the  application  of 
principles  that  creates  a  difference  of  opinion  upon  public  affairs. 
For  instance:  You  believe  in  justice,  and  so  do  I.  But  what  is 
just?  That  is  the  question  between  the  North  and  South.  We 
believe  in  humanity.  But  which  is  the  surest  way  of  being  hu- 
mane? Sometimes  forbearance  will  constitute  humanity.  Some- 
times aggression  is  more  humane  than  peace.  To  fire  upon  Sum- 
ter will  prevent  a  civil  war.  You  think  not.  It  is  not  a  difference 
of  principles,  but  of  judgment.  You  believe  that  the  happiness  of 
the  population  will  be  consulted  by  unity  of  national  life.  We  be- 
lieve that  two  nations  are  better  than  one.  "We  agree  as  to  the 
principle,  viz.,  the  duty  of  seeking  the  happiness  of  the  people. 
We  differ  as  to  means  only.  I  say  that  you  are  one  of  us.  I  mean 
that  your  sympathies  go  with  the  land  of  your  birth.  Events  are 
transpiring  that  will  draw  the  lines,  and  all  men  will  have  to  choose 
Bides.  The  time  is  close  at  hand.  It  will  be  impossible  for  you, 
when  you  see  that  the  rupture  cannot  be  preventol,  to  take  sides 


390  Norwood ;  ory 

against  your  father  and  kindred,  against  your  State,  against  all 
your  companions,  and  against  the  South,  and  all  its  glorious  fu- 
ture! Your  honor  and  your  affection  will  compel  the  right 
course/  And  it  is  this  certainty  which  induces  me  to  confide  in 
yon.' 

"He  then  laid  open  to  me  the  whole  inside  view,  and  I  confess 
that  my  heart  sank  within  me,  as  he  closed,  and  I  felt  a  gloomy 
certainty  that  the  nation  was  rent  in  twain.' 

"  '  There  are,'  said  he,  '  among  the  active  and  influential  men 
in  the  South  three  classes.  First,  are  the  old  politicians,  who  do 
not  want  secession,  and  threaten  it  only  to  secure  for  the  South 
certain  further  concessions  which  shall  prolong  its  political  ascend- 
ency. They  are  dull  and  selfish  men.  They  foresee  nothing  and 
plan  nothing,  except  the  possession  of  political  power. 

"  'ISText  is  the  great  middle  class,  containing  the  active  young 
men,  and  most  of  the  families  of  wealth  throughout  the  South. 
They  threaten  secession,  and  even  welcome  it,  but  with  a  distinct 
understanding  among  themselves  that  it  is  the  shortest  road  to  a 
reconstructed  Union.  They  all  hold  to  the  antiquated  superstition 
of  a  single  IS'ation.  When  once  the  South  is  organized,  and  its 
government  recognized,  then,  they  reason,  wUl  begin  a  process  of 
disintegration  of  the  'Northern  Union,  and  of  the  absorption  of  its 
particles  by  the  Southern  Union.  One  by  one  the  ^Northwestern 
States  wUl  dissolve  their  connection  with  their  government,  and 
come  under  our  new  Constitution.  Pennsylvania  will  not  be  long 
in  following.  INew  York  will  not  consent  to  see  her  commerce 
pass  to  Baltimore  and  Charleston.  INew  England,  which  has  been 
the  firebrand  of  the  continent,  may  smoulder  and  go  to  ashes 
among  her  own  rocks.  We  will  have  none  of  her.  Her  young 
men  will  emigrate,  marry  and  conform  to  the  customs  of  the  South. 
In  fifty  years  she  wUl  be  as  little  heard  of  as  i!Tova  Scotia  or  iSTew- 
foundland.' 

"  '  The  third  class  is  the  only  one  that  has  a  clear  and  distinct  plan 
and  principle.  All  the  others  are  drifting  and  catching  at  accidents, 
and  hoping  for  lucky  events.  But  we  have  a  definite  end  in  view. 
We  mean  to  establish  a  Southern  Confederacy,  confined  if  possible 
to  latitudes  in  which  Slavery  can  profitably  exist.  We  shall  resist 
the  entrance  of  Free  States.  We  don't  want  them.  Free  and 
Slave  States  cannot  live  together.     What  is  the  use  of  a  divorce,  if 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  391 

one  tuins  right  about  and  marries  the  shrew  over  agaic  ?  iso.  "We 
are  for  immediate  separation ;  for  the  establishment  of  a  nation 
whose  climate,  industries,  institutions,  and  people  are  homogeneous. 
We  want  no  war.  If  let  alone  we  will  be  peaceful.  When  it  is  set- 
tled that  the  South  is  permanently  and  forever  a  separate  and 
independent  nation,  there  may  spring  up  kind  relations  between  it 
and  the  North.' 

"  I  inquired : 

"'How  can  you  speak  with  such  confidence  of  success  when 
you  admit  that  you  are  a  small  minority,  and  that  the  two  other 
classes  constitute  the  wealth  and  the  influential  men  of  the  South? ' 

" '  Because,  in  a  revolution,  the  men  who  stand  still  are  powerless. 
Those  men  who  purpose  energetic  action  suit  the  temper  of  such 
times.  In  peace,  conservatives — and,  in  revolution,  radicals — will 
always  lead.  Hardly  one  man  in  Montgomery  wanted  secession. 
South  Carolina  forced  them  to  it.  This  glorious  State  is  guided  by 
a  few  men  who  know  what  they  are  aiming  at,  and  who  use  there- 
fore every  opportunity  with  advantage.  All  the  rest  are  mere 
waiters  upon  time.' 

"  '  Do  you  mean  that  President  Davis  did  not  wish  Secession  ? ' 

" '  He  belonged  to  the  second  class  of  whom  I  spoke.  He  was 
opposed  to  secession.  He  could  have  been  bribed  easily  to  main- 
tain the  Union.' 

"'Bribed?' 

"  'Yes,  with  the  offer  of  the  Presidency  of  it.  An-  ambitious, 
obstinate  man,  subtle  rather  than  strong.  A  wise  manager  of  com- 
mon affairs,  but  not  large  enough  for  comprehensive  and  complex 
matters.  He  will  do  very  well,  however,  to  pilot  us  out  of  the 
Union.  He  is  proud  and  persistent,  and  will  not  easily  be  bam- 
boozled.' 

"  '  How  do  you  regard  Stephens  ? ' 

"  '  A  sagacious  man,  without  any  belly.' 

"  '  TThat  do  you  mean  by  that  ? ' 

"  '  He  is  all  brains.  But  he  lacks  force  for  action.  He  is  a  good 
lecturer,  but  a  poor  leader.  He  has  gone  off  with  us  just  as  a  priest 
might  be  imagined  tohave  gone  off  wit\  the  ten  tribes,  hoping  all 
the  time  to  get  back  to  Jerusalem.  H»i  goes  with  us  in  hopes,  by 
and  by,  to  have  influence  to  get  us  back  into  the  Union.  That  is 
like  a  cock-sparrow  flying  with  a  storm,  hoping  to  manage  it.' 


392  Norwood ;  or, 

"  '  Stephens  certainly  ranks  high  among  the  people.' 
"  'He  ought  to.     He  is  honest,  and  a  sagacious  critic  of  histor 
leal  events.     He  is  wise  about  things  that  have  already  happened. 
But  he  has  no  constructive  wisdom.     He  has  neither  the  imagina- 
tion, the  courage,  nor  the — well — the   fanaticism  necessary  for 
founding  new  States.' 

"  By  this  time  we  had  reached  St.  Philip's  church,  and  my 
companion  entered  a  modest  burial-ground  lying  across  the  way 
from  it.  I  hesitated  at  entering.  '  Only  a  few  steps,'  said  he.  "We 
came  to  a  grave,  upon  which  stood,  in  altar-form,  a  large  white 
slab  of  marble.  By  the  faint  light  of  the  moon,  I  saw  cut  upon 
the  middle  of  it — nothing  above  and  nothing  beneath  it, — alone, 
simple  and  large, — the  name 

CALHOUX! 

"  For  a  moment  or  two  there  was  silence.  At  length  my  com- 
panion spoke : 

" '  Had  HE  lived,  we  should  have  had  a  leader.  He  was  our 
Prophet.  He  brought  us  to  the  verge  of  the  Promised  Land,  but 
was  not  himself  suffered  to  go  over.  He  died,  and  no  one  is  found 
worthy  to  bear  his  mantle !  Being  dead,  he  yet  speaketh.  From 
this  spot  goes  forth  the  influence  which  will  found  a  new  nation. 
Men  will  come  hither,  in  later  days,  upon  pilgrimages,  as  they  have 
hitherto  to  Mount  Yernon ! ' 

"  '  I  have  always  deemed  his  ingenuity  acute,  but  impracticable.' 

"  'Impracticable?  Is  the  Bible  an  impracticable  book  because 
people  are  not  wise  enough  to  practise  its  truths  ?  All  men  of  seed- 
thoughts  are  esteemed  impracticable  in  their  own  generation.  Men 
want  something  which  they  can  use  now — not  something  which 
will  feed  them  by  and  by.  They  plant  summer  crops,  not  orchards. 
The  popular  thinkers  are  miUers  and  bakers,  who  grind  wheat  and 
bake  bread  for  immediate  use.' 

"  'Do  you  regard  the  present  movement  in  the  South  as  the 
result  of  Calhoun's  teaching  ? ' 

"  '  There  is  not  a  man  under  fifty  in  South  Carolina  who  has 
not  been  fashioned  by  Calhoun's  influence.  Every  Southern  college 
has  taught  his  writings.  His  views  of  the  sovereignty  of  the  sep- 
arate States  in  the  Union  are  the  lever  by  which  we  shall  pry  the 
Union  apart.     A  great  man  !  and  wiser  than  his  times ! ' 


Village  Life  in  New  Jincjland.  393 

" 'It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  he  was  the  apostle  of  the 
"Retrograde,  not  of  the  Advance,  and  your  plans  seem  to  me  to  be 
based  on  the  philosophy  of  disintegration.  You  may  hold  together 
for  a  time  by  external  pressure  ;  but  there  is  no  cohesion  in  Cal- 
houn's State ;  it  is  all  centrifugal  and  explosive  in  its  analyses  and 
ultimate  tendencies.' 

"  The  clock  in  the  church  opposite  struck  twelve.  I  plead  my 
health  as  a  reason  for  returning.  On  the  way  back,  the  Governor 
told  me  that,  on  the  morrow,  Sumter  would  be  formally  sum- 
moned to  surrender ;  that  if  any  thing  further  were  done  toward 
mediation,  he  would  notify  me." 

"  April  11. — At  two  o'clock  this  afternoon,  Gen.  Beauregard 
formally  demanded  the  evacuation  of  Fort  Sumter.  '  All  proper 
facilities  will  be  afforded,'  so  the  summons  ran,  'for  the  removal 
of  yourself  and  command,  together  with  company  arms  and 
property,  and  all  private  property,  to  any  port  in  the  United 
States  which  you  may  elect.  The  flag  which  you  have  upheld  so 
long  and  with  so  much  fortitude,  under  the  most  trying  circum- 
stances, maybe  saluted  by  you  on  taking  it  down.'  Major  Ander- 
son replied:  'My  sense  of  honor  and  my  obligations  to  my 
Government  prevent  my  compliance.'  He  stated  incidentally  that 
starvation  would  soon  compel  evacuation.  I  caught  at  this  sen- 
tence. It  seemed  a  ray  of  light  and  hope.  I  urged  the  General  to 
communicate  it  to  his  Government.  In  due  time  came  from  Secre- 
tary "Walker,  at  Montgomery,  the  permission,  '  "We  do  not  desire 
needlessly  to  bombard  Fort  Sumter.  If  Major  Anderson  will  state 
the  time  at  which,  as  indicated  by  him,  he  will  evacuate,  and  agree 
that  in  the  meantime  he  will  not  use  his  guns  against  us,  unles 
ours  should  be  used  against  Fort  Sumter,  you  are  thus  to  avoid  the 
effusion  of  Mood.  If  this  or  its  equivalent  be  refused,  reduce  the 
fort  as  your  judgment  decides  to  be  most  practicable.' 

"I  was  overjoyed  at  the  response.  At  the  Governor's  request 
I  was  joined  to  the  gentlemen  of  Beauregard's  staff  who  were  that 
night  to  visit  the  fort.  One  thing  I  could  not  understand.  Beau- 
regard expected  to  open  fire  before  morning !  "Why  should  that 
be  ?    "Was  there  some  trick  in  this  message  ? 

"  So  confident  was  I  that  peace  would  be  preserved,  that  I 
inwardly  triumphed  over  the  crowds  in  the  streets  of  Charleston, 
who,  aware  of  the  immrient  bombardment,  filled  the  public  ways, 


394  Nonuood ;  or, 

as  on  a  holiday,  gaily  dressed,  exuberant  in  spirits,  as  if  the  citj 
were  one  vast  vredding-feast.  They  were  crowding  the  East  and 
South  Battery  streets,  and  the  TThitepoint  garden,  hoping  to  be 
spectators  of  a  nation's  funeral !  The  sun  was  gone  down.  The 
reflected  light  quivered  on  the  waters,  as  if  they  were  stained  with 
blood.  I  know  not  why  my  confident  joy  was  tempered  with 
forebodings.  I  inwardly  said,  as  I  left  the  chattering  crowd, 
'Keap  all  the  darkness  which  the  night  brings;  you  shall  see  no 
flames  to-night ! '  Yet  my  heart  was  heavy.  I  was  experiencing 
probably  the  reaction  of  long  excitement.  It  was  past  midnight 
before  we  set  oflT  in  the  boat,  and  it  was  after  one  o'clock  when 
we  reached  the  fort. 

"  On  approaching  the  postern  we  were  challenged,  but  after  a 
few  minutes'  delay,  permitted  to  land  and  enter  the  fort.  The 
gentlemen  of  our  party  were  Major  Lace,  Col.  Chism,  Roger  A. 
Pryor,  Senator   Chesnut,  and  myself. 

The  written  message  was  delivered  to  Major  Anderson  : 
"  '  If  you  will  state  the  time  at  which  you  will  evacuate  Fort 
Sumter,  and  agree  that  in  the  meantime  you  will  not  use  your 
guns  against  us,  unless  ours  shall  be  employed  against  Fort  Sumter, 
we  will  abstain  from  opening  fire  upon  you.' 

"Major  Anderson  was  surrounded  by  his  officers — all  of  them 
young  men.  He  seemed  about  fifty — his  hair  touched  with  gray; 
his  stature  about  five  feet  eight ;  his  forehead  square ;  his  face 
intelligent,  mild,  but  full  of  firmness. 

"  The  interior  of  the  fort,  about  an  acre  large,  was  in  much 
confusion.  Unmounted  cannon  lay  upon  the  ground ;  material  for 
various  purposes  was  heaped  up.  It  was  now  the  morning  of  the 
12th — Friday.  Major  Anderson  said  that  on  Monday,  the  15th, 
three  days  hence,  he  should  be  obliged  to  evacuate  the  fort.  He 
accordingly  committed  to  writing,  and  delivered  to  us  the  promise 
that,  unless  meanwhile  he  should  receive  controlling  instructions 
from  his  government,  he  would,  on  Monday  noon,  at  twelve 
o'clock,  leave  the  fort. 

"  The  gentlemen  of  my  party  retired  to  a  corner  for  consulta- 
tion. I  was  overjoyed  at  the  happy  termination  of  this  dangerous 
matter.  I  congratulated  Major  Anderson  and  his  officers,  and  we 
all  hoped  that  the  storm  was  past,  and  that  better  counsels  would 
bring  brighter  days  to  the  country. 


Village  Life  in  New  En  (/land.  395 

"  After  about  fifteen  minutes,  the  gentlemen  who  had  been 
consulting  retu/ned,  and  handed  to  Major  Anderson  a  paper  con- 
taining the  following  message : 

"  '  B7  authority  of  Brig.-Gen.  Beauregard,  commanding  the 
Provisional  Forces  of  the  Confederate  States,  we  have  the  honor 
to  notify  you  that  he  will  open  the  fire  of  his  batteries  on  Fort 
Sumter  oue  hour  from  this  time.' 

"  I  was  petrified.     I  scarcely  believed  my  senses.     My  first 
impulse  was  that  of  utter  indignation  at  the  men  who,  it  was  now 
plain,  never  meant  or  desired  to  avert  a  conflict.     Doubtless  they' 
had  hoped  that  the  time  for  evacuation  would  be  put  so  far  oflT  that 
there  would  be  a  decent  pretext  for  refusing  to  wait. 

"  They  were  caught  in  their  own  trap.  Only  three  days  were 
demanded.  Every  one  knew  that  at  the  best  the  fort  could  not 
be  reduced  in  less  than  that  time,  and  possibly  not  for  a  week. 
But  blood  was  wanted.     It  was  necessary  to  arouse  the  South. 

"I  could  not  repress  the  exclamation,  'This  is  shameful!  I 
protest  against  it ! '  I  was  on  the  point  of  asking  leave  to  remain 
in  the  fort,  and  to  take  part  with  its  garrison  in  defending  its  flag! 
But  what  could  I  do,  untrained,  and  ignorant  of  war,  except  to 
consume  provisions  already  wasted  to  the  minimum  ?  "With  a 
heavy  heart,  bitter  and  resentful,  I  turned  away  and  left  the 
postern.  My  indignation  kept  me  silent.  We  soon  landed.  It 
was  already  near  morning.  The  east  was  changing,  and  a  faint 
twilight  came  stealing  over  the  harbor,  every  moment  growing 
brighter.  You  have  noticed  that  at  no  moment  of  the  day  has 
light  such  a  virgin  efiect  as  between  twilight  and  sunrise."  Every- 
thing has  a  freshness,  an  unworn  and  pure  look,  as  if  it  had  just 
been  created.  I  stood  alone,  for  I  would  not  go  with  the  gentle- 
men of  his  staff  to  report  to  Beauregard.  A  light  film  of  mist  lay 
along  the  rim  of  the  harbor;  but  within  that  silver  setting  the 
water  lay  dark  and  palpitatmg.  Out  of  its  bosom  rose  Sumter — 
sheer  up  from  the  water,  which  lapped  its  very  base  on  every  side. 
How  serene  and  secure  the  fort  looked!  .How  beautifully  the 
morning  brightened  around  it,  though  as  yet  the  sun  was  far  down 
below  the  sea ! 

"  I  was  startled  by  the  roar  of  a  mortar  a  little  behind  me.  Out 
of  its  white  smoke  rose,  with  graceful  curve,  a  bomb  that  hurtled 
through  the  air  and  burst  right  above  the  fort !     '  Cursed  be  the 


396  Norwood ;  or, 

hand  that  fired  that  shot !  May  violence  overtake  the  wretch; 
and  a  disgraceful  death ! '  I  did  not  know  that  it  was  my  owd 
State  that  broke  the  peace  !  Edmund  Euffin  it  was,  an  old  man 
with  white  hair  that  hung  down  in  profusion  over  his  shoulders, 
and  was  now  flying  wild,  his  eyes  bright  with  an  excitement  either 
of  fanaticism  or  insanity. 

"  This  single  shot  given,  there  was  a  dead  pause  for  a  moment 
or  two.  A  flock  of  wild  ducks,  startled  from  their  feeding  ground, 
flew  sklitting  along  the  face  of  the  water,  and  were  lost  behind  tlie 
fort.  The  peace  was  gone  !  This  tranquil  harbor  was  changed  to 
a  volcano  !  Jetting  forth  from  around  its  sides  came  tongues  of 
fire,  wrapped  in  smoke,  and  the  air  was  streaked  with  missiles 
converging  from  every  side  and  nieeting  at  Sumter !  Now  that 
the  circle  was  once  on  fire  it  flamed  incessantly.  Gun  followed 
gun — battery  answered  battery — and  the  earth  fairly  trembled 
with  the  explosions.  I  was  fascinated.  I  could  not  withdraw.  I 
waited  to  see  the  fort  deliver  its  fire.  It  stood  silent.  Did  the 
giant  sleep  ? 

"  As  the  sun  flamed  above  the  horizon  and  shot  its  light  across 
the  waters,  up  rose  the  flag  from  the  fort,  gracefully  climbing  to 
its  topmost  height,  and  rolled  out  its  folds,  as  if  it  were  sent  up  to 
look  out  over  the  troubled  scene  and  command  peace !  Still  no 
gun  from  the  fort  replied.  Two  hours  of  bombarding,  and  not  a 
shot  in  return !  But  at  seven  in  the  morning,  a  roar  from  the 
lower  tier  of  guns  gave  notice  that  the  fort  had  roused  itself  and 
joined  in  the  affray.  Its  shot  began  to  fall  around  me.  I  retreated 
within  the  battery,  and  then,  sick  and  heart-heavy,  I  determined 
to  make  my  way  back  to  the  city.  Aly  heart  was  with  ,the  seven- 
ty men  battling  for  the  flag  against  five  thousand. 

"  The  Confederate  flag  and  the  palmetto  were  flying  together 
over  the  forts.  My  soul  spurned  them !  I  felt  that  I  was  among 
enemies.  The  roar  went  on.  As  I  drew  near  the  city,  I  began  to 
hear  the  church  beUs  ringing  wild  with  joy  !  Crowds  everywhere 
lined  the  wharves,  filled  the  streets,  covered  the  roofs  of  the  hith- 
erward  houses.  The  people  had  been  out  all  night !  Many,  dis- 
couraged at  the  delay,  had  begun  returning  to  their  homes.  But 
the  first  sound  of  a  gun  brought  them  back  with  alacrity.  One 
would  think  that  the  humbling  of  the  national  flag  was  the  most 
joyous   occasion  in  the  world !      Worn  out  with   excitement  and 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  391 

want  of  sleep,  disgusted  and  indignant,  I  spurned  all  company,  and 
would  hide  myself  from  the  sight  of  the  people  and  the  sounds  of 
the  heavy  guns,  which  in  succession,  or  in  salvos,  filled  the  air 
with  their  dull,  distant  thunder.  I  sought  my  room,  and  toward 
noon  fell  into  a  feverish  sleep.  The  noise  of  the  artillery  still 
sounded  in  my  dreams,  and,  mixed  in  the  phantasms  of  sleep, 
helped  to  disorder  my  imagination.  I  dreamed  that  I  was  at  Nor- 
wood,-and  conversing  with  Miss  Eose,  when  Doctor  "Wentworth 
entered,  and  his  voice  broke  like  a  sound  of  thunder  upon  me,  and 
the  dream,  changing,  led  me  now  with  Cathcart,  and  now  with 
"Wentworth,  among  sand-batteries  and  forts.  These  dissolving 
views  changed,  and  it  was  Miss  Eose,  or  Alice  that  was  in  dis- 
tress— the  house  seemed  crumbling  and  falling,  part  by  part,  with 
terrible  crash,  and  I — utterly  unable  to  stir  !  I  started  up  from 
such  disturbed  visions.  All  the  afternoon  the  same  continuous 
firing  filled  every  part  of  the  city  with  its  sound.  Volumes  of 
black  smoke  rolled  up  from  the  fort.  It  was  on  fire !  Its  guns 
fired  but  infrequently.  Every  time  the  smoke  rolled  away  I  look- 
ed anxiously  through  the  glass  to  see  if  the  flag  still  waved.  The 
sun  went  down  upon  it !  All  night,  but  at  intervals  of  fifteen 
minutes,  the  bombardment  went  on.  People  who  had  expected 
to  reduce  the  fort  in  a  few  hours  seemed  discouraged  at  this  pro- 
tracted defence. 

"  The  morning  came,  and  with  its  first  full  light  the  forts  that 
lay  in  a  circle  round  the  fort,  opened  in  order,  Johnson  on  the 
south,  Cummings'  Point  on  the  east,  Moultrie  on  the  north,  and 
the  floating  battery  on  the  west,  together  with  the  smaller  inter- 
mediate batteries.  As  far  as  I  could  discern,  the  walls  of  Sumter 
had  suffered  little.  No  breach  appeared.  The  barbette  guns  were 
knocked  away.  But  though  they  were  the  heaviest,  they  had 
never  been  used.  The  besiegers  aimed  to  sweep  them  with  such  a 
fire  that  the  men  could  not  work  them.  Again  the  smoke  rolled 
up  from  the  fort,  and  flames  could  now  be  seen.  Moultrie  poured 
a  continuous  stream  of  red-hot  shot  upon  the  devoted  fort.  At 
last  came  noon.  The  firing  ceased.  Boats  were  putting  off  to  the 
fort.  By  one  o'clock  it  was  noised  abroad  that  the  garrison  had 
surrendered !  It  was  true.  On  Sunday  noon,  they  were  to  salute 
the  flag  and  evacuate  the  fort. 

"If  the  week  days  were  jubilant,  how  shall  I  describe  the  Sab- 


398  Norwood. 

bafh  ?  The  churches  were  thronged  with  excited  citizens.  In 
many  of  these  all  restraint  was  thrown  off,  and  the  thanksgiving 
and  rejoicing  for  the  victory  swept  everything  like  summer  winds. 
I  went  to  my  own  church,  the  Episcopal.  The  decorum  of  the 
service,  which  is  a  liulwark  against  irreverent  excitements,  served, 
on  this  occasion,  a  good  purpose.  Yet,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  in 
the  lessons  for  the  day  occurred  a  passage  that  sounded  in  my  ears 
like  a  prophecy,  and  full  of  warning  and  doom.  It  was  this: 
'  Prepare  war,  wake  up  the  mighty  men ;  let  them  come  up.  Beat 
your  ploughshares  into  swords,  and  your  pruning  hooks  into 
spears  ;  let  the  weak  say,  I  am  strong.  Multitudes,  multitudes  in 
the  valley  of  decision ;  for  the  day  of  the  Lord  is  near  in  the  val- 
ley of  decision.' 

"As  I  came  from  church,  a  south  wind  blew,  and  I  heard  the 
sound  of  cannon.  I  walked  rapidly  to  the  point,  and  only  in  time 
to  see  through  my  glass  the  flag  descending  from  over  Sumter  I 
The  drama  is  ended! — or  rather  opened!  Who  can  tell  what 
shall  he  the  end  of  this  ?  It  may  be  that  all  the  roar  and  battle  of 
the  two  days  past  is  as  nothing  to  that  which  at  some  future  day 
shall  precede  the  raising  again  of  this  flag  over  this  fallen  fortress. 
The  future  is  in  the  hand  of  God  ! 

"  To-morrow  I  shall  bid  farewell  to  these  unhappy  scenes.  I 
go  to  Eichmond,  and  thence  home.  Shall  I  ever  see  Norwood 
again  ?  I  know  not  why  my  spirits  sink  so  low.  I  am  fall  of 
forebodings.  Probably  weakness  and  fatigue  are  reasons  enough. 
But  over  the  future  hangs  a  dark  cloud  which  I  would  that  I 
might  pierce  and  know  what  it  hides!  Should  I  never  see  old 
friends  again,  I  would  not  willingly  be  forgotten  of  them — for  I 
can  never  forget.     And  so,  farewell.  Tom  Heywood." 


CHAPTER  XLin. 

THE    AKOUSING. 

The  March  winds  had  blown  themselves  out.  Eainy  April  had 
set  in.  Over  all  New  England,  the  signs  of  the  new  season  were 
thickening.  Maple-sap  was  flowing  freely,  and  the  w^oods  and 
maple  orchards  were  filled  with  sounds  of  industry. 

The  dull  gray  of  the  uppermost  twigs  in  chestnut  woods  was 
turning  to  a  ruddy  brown.  The  peach-blossom  buds  were  swelling 
fast.  The  willows  already  shook  their  tassels  in  the  wind.  The 
air,  the  earth,  the  round  heaven  and  every  creature  beneath  it 
seemed  to  rejoice  in  the  breaking  of  wmter.  Cattle  rubbed  them- 
selves against  fences  to  free  the  old  coat  and  give  place  to  the 
new.  The  herds  owned  the  fervid  impulses  of  love.  The  dairy 
w-oman  cries,  "See  how  yellow  the  butter  is  to-day!  "  "Yes," 
says  the  herdsman,  "the  cows  have  been  down  in  the  moist 
pasture,  and  found  early  grass." 

The  oxen  are  yoked  and  the  plough  is  set  agoing.  Blackbirds 
follow  the  furrow  and  pick  for  fat  grubs.  The  red-winged  starling 
from  the  swamp  sounds  its  medley— a  cross  between  a  cackle  and 
a  whistle.  No  more  ice !  no  more  snow !  Cold  winds  yet  con- 
tend for  the  mastery,  and  new^-dropped  lambs  shiver,  and  frisking 
calves  cuddle  in  sheltered  spots  from  its  rough  breath. 

But,  ah !  the  south  is  propitious !  The  sun  is  ascending  from 
the  south,  and  bringing  with  him  all  treasures.  Look!  do  you 
not  see  those  low-lying  clouds  in  the  south  glorious  and  ruddy  ? 
They  are  harvests  which  the  sun  is  driving  forward— red  apples, 
purple  grapes,  yellow  corn,  and  wheat.  Full  of  gifts  is  thy  bosom, 
O  south !  Listen  to  tbe  sounds  w^hich  every  wind  wafts  from  the 
south.  It  is  the  bluebird  in  the  orchard,  just  come  from  its 
southern  home.  Robins  have  come  thence.  The  south  sends 
sweet  songs  of  birds,  and  smell  of  flow^ers,  and  the  silver  haze  of 
showers,  every  drop  of  which  is  like  a  planted  seed.  O  gor- 
g'eous  south !  whose  days  are  summer  round  the  whole  year,  to  thee 
fly  our  birds  in  autumn ;  and  thence  again,  tuned  and  refledged, 
18 


400  Norwood ;  or, 

they  come  to  us  in  spring !  From  thee  come  new  life  and  joy 
Peace  be  on  thee,  mother  of  all  good !  and  far  from  thy  fields  be 
harm  and  sorrow — tlioii  that  art  full  of  blessings ! 

On  the  morning  of  April  12th,  there  came  from  tlie  south 
other  gifts.  Not  sunlight,  or  the  flight  of  birds,  or  the  flowers  of 
spring;  but  a  lurid  cloud,  sounding  and  dreadful,  proclaiming  to 
the  nation  that  war  had  come ! 

When  the  telegraph  shot  the  news  of  the  bombardment  of  Fort 
Sumter  through  every  State,  men  held  their  breath.  They  could 
scarcely  understand.  Like  those  suddenly  overtaken  by  an  im- 
measurable grief,  they  stood  silent,  listening,  waiting  for  some- 
thing to  say, — "  It  is  a  dream !  it  is  not  true!  "  As  the  day  wore 
on,  a  sharp  curiosity  tensely  held  every  mind.  How  fares  the 
conflict?  Will  the  fort  sustain  itself  and  silence  the  beleaguering 
guns?  For  an  impression  had  crept  through  the  public  mind  that 
the  fort  was  invincible.  "We  were  all  children  then,  and  knew 
nothing  of  that  school  in  which  since  the  nation  has  had  millions 
of  scholars ! 

On  Saturday,  came  contradictory  tidings.  Rumor  was  busy. 
The  reality  of  war  was  eating  slowly  into  men's  consciousness. 
None  had  believed  it.  Such  unnatural  violence  can  be  possible 
only  to  the  insane !  Was  ever  nation  happier  ?  Was  ever  pros- 
perity so  continuous,  and  its  fruits  m  material  wealth  so  won- 
derful? 

If  war  begins,  the  South, is  too  shrewd  to  begin  it.  She  has 
ruled  the  land  for  fifty  years,  and  if  as  wise  as  the  English  aristoc- 
racy, she  will  bend  for  the  moment  to  the  political  gale  which 
may  not  be  resisted,  but  making  peace  with  circumstances,  she 
wiU  seize  again  the  helm  and  guide  the  ship ! 

No  one  believed  war  possible.  So  long  had  peace  brooded 
that  it  seemed  a  destiny.  We  were  used  to  fiery  conflicts  of 
politics,  and  threats,  and  predictions  of  disaster  and  ruin.  In  the 
eyes  of  a  vanquished  party  the  country  is  always  ruined.  Intense 
excitements  were  characteristic  of  our  national  life.  But  free 
speech  had  always  proved  a  safety-valve  to  men's  passions.  Men 
waxed  hot,  raged  and  denounced ;  then,  as  after  a  thunder  storm, 
every  one  went  on  his  way  in  a  clearer  sky  and  purer  air ! 

Though  it  had  year  by  year  been  threatened ;  though  the 
threats  grew  sterner  as  the  election  of  Mr.  Lincoln  approached ; 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  401 

though  the  act  of  secession  was  accomplished,  and  seven  States 
threw  off  their  allegiance  to  the  Government ;  though  South  Car- 
olina day  and  night  was  girding  Fort  Sumter  with  batteries,  and 
gangs  of  slaves,  by  the  thousand,  were  heaping  up  the  sands  of  the 
shore  into  vast  fortifications,  and  the  lighthouses  had  been  dark- 
ened, the  buoys  of  Southern  harbors  removed,  judges  had  re- 
signed, forts  had  been  seized,  and  sworn  public  officer  after  officer 
had  proved  treacherous,  yet  the  innate  hopefulness  of  the  people 
and  the  security  bred  by  long  peace,  prevailed.  Men  would  not 
believe  that  there  could  be  war ! 

On  Sunday  morning,  the  14th  of  April,  it  was  known  that 
Sumter  had  surrendered.     The  scales  fell  fi'om  men's  eyes! 

There  was  wae  ! 

The  flag  of  the  Nation  had  been  pierced  by  men  who  had  been 
taught  their  fatal  skill  under  its  protection !  The  nation's  pride, 
its  love,  its  honor  suffered  with  that  flag,  and  with  it  trailed  in 
humiliation ! 

"Without  concert,  or  council,  the  whole  people  rose  suddenly 
with  one  indignation  to  vindicate  the  Nation's  honor.  It  came  as 
night  comes,  or  the  morning — broad  as  a  hemisphere.  It  rose  as 
the  tides  raise  the  whole  ocean,  along  the  whole  continent,  drawn 
upward  by  the  whole  heavens  I 

The  frivolous  became  solemn ;  the  wild  grew  stern  ;  the  young 
felt  an  instant  manhood. 

It  was  the  strangest  Sunday  that  ever  dawned  on  Norwood 
sinc«  the  colonial  days  when,  by  reason  of  hostile  Indians,  the 
fathers  repaired  to  church  with  their  muskets!  All  the  region 
round  about  came  forth.  Never  had  such  an  audience  gathered 
in  that  house.  Every  face  had  in  it  a  new  life.  Dr.  Buell  was 
not  wont  to  introduce  into  his  Sabbath  services  topics  allied  to 
politics,  nor  did  he  mean  to  change  his  habit  to-day. 

His  sermon,  weighty,  and  on  themes  which  usually  are  ac- 
counted more  solemn  than  all  others,  yet  sounded  light  and  empty 
in  men's  ears.  Nor  had  he  ever  preached  with  so  much  difficulty. 
He  lost  the  connection,  hurried  passages  which  should  have  been 
deliberate,  and  afterwards  owned  that  he  was  never  so  glad  to  get 
through  a  sermon. 

It  was  in  the  prayer  following  that  the  stream  burst  forth.  A 
mighty  tide  rose  within  him,  and  he  poured  out  his  soul  for  the 


402  Norwood  i  or, 

country.  He  prayed  for  the  Government,  for  the  men  in  Fort 
Sumter,  who  had  been  like  the  three  children  in  the  fiery  furnace, 
for  the  flag,  and  for  all  in  authority,  that  they  might  have  wisdom 
and  courage  to  vindicate  it ! 

The  house  was  still — so  still  that  the  ear  ached  between  every 
pause.  The  word  Amen  set  loose  an  army  of  handkerchiefs,  and 
people  wiped  more  eyes  than  were  ever  wet  at  once  in  that  house. 
Just  as  Dr.  Buell  rose  to  give  out  the  closing  hymn,  he  saw  the 
choir  rising  as  if  to  give  an  anthem.  The  minister  sat  down  ;  but 
he  quickly  rose  up  again,  and  every  man  in  the  house,  as  the 
choir  sang  the  Star  Spangled  Banner,  Such  a  scene  had  never 
been  known  in  sober  Norwood !  And  when  the  last  strain  died, 
it  was  with  diflficulty  that  the  minister  could  repress  an  open 
cheer. 

"  Why  didn't  you  let  'em  ? "  said  Deacon  Marble.  "  It's  enough 
to  make  the  stones  cry  out.  I  never  felt  so  sorry  before  that  I 
hadn't  a  house  full  of  boys." 

Aunt  Polly  for  once  found  nothing  to  rebuke  in  the  Deacon. 
"  This  is  the  Lord's  work.  Sunday  isn't  a  bit  too  good  to  teach 
men  that  they  ought' er  save  the  country !  My  grandfather  dug 
the  sile  out  from  under  this  church  to  git  saltpetre,  to  make 
powder  on,  to  fight  for  our  liberties !  And  I  guess  the  old  man's 
bones  that's  lyin'  yonder  shook  when  they  heard  them  cannon 
jar !     I^Tow's  the  time  for  folks  to  show  themselves." 

The  whole  population  seemed  to  be  in  the  street !  Men 
formed  groups  and  discussed  the  one  only  topic.  Party  lines 
were  fast  rubbing  out.  There  was  an  afternoon  service,  but  it 
was  like  a  dream.  As  yet  men's  feeliugs  had  found  no  channels, 
and  no  relief  in  action.  A  few  discordant  notes  there  were. 
Tough  old  Hunt,  farmer  up  in  "  Hardscrabble,"  as  a  poor  neigh- 
borhood was  called,  in  spite  of  angry  eyes  and  frowning  brows 
would  have  his  say : — "  I  alius  told  you  that  the  Abolitionists 
would  bring  blood  on  us.  Now  I  hope  they're  satisfied.  They've 
been  teasin'  and  worryin'  the  South  for  twenty  years,  and  now 
the  South  has  turned  and  gored  'em.     Sarved  'em  right !  " 

"  I  tell  ye,  old  leather-skin,"  said  Hiram  Beers,  "  you'd  better 
shut  up  !  The  boys  ain't  in  a  temper  to  hear  such  talk.  You'll 
git  hurt  afore  you  git  through  a  hundred  speeches  Hke  that!  " 

Old  Hunt  was  a  small  wiry  man,  about  sixty  years  of  age,  with 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  403 

black  hair,  and  a  turbid  hazel  eye,  that  looked  cruel  when  he 
was  wrathful.     Hiram's  words  set  him  aflame. 

"Where's  the  man  tliat's  goin'  to  stop  my  tongue  ?  This  is  a 
free  country,  I  guess  !     I  shall  say  what  I've  a  mind  to " 

Just  then,  Hiram,  who  saw  that  trouble  was  brewing,  changed 
the  attack  from  the  old  man  to  his  horse,  who  was  as  fiery  and 
obstinate  as  his  master,  and  already  had  exhausted  his  patience 
and  fodder,  in  a  long  Sunday  under  the  horse-shed.  While  the 
old  man  was  standing  in  his  wagon,  bristling  all  over,  like  a  black 
and  tan  terrier,  and  fierce  for  opposition,  Hiram  gave  his  horse  a 
keen  cut  under  his  belly,  where  a  horse  least  likes  to  be  Int.  The 
first  thing  Hunt  knew  he  was  sprawling  in  his  wagon,  and  the 
horse  was  heading  for  home  with  a  speed  unbecoming  a  Sabbath- 
day.  The  old  man,  nimble  and  plucky,  gathered  himself  up, 
utterly  at  a  loss  which  he  was  most  angry  with,  the  public  or  the 
horse, — now  giving  the  animal  a  rousing  pull,  and  then  shaking 
his  left  fist  back  at  the  crowd,  he  disappeared  from  the  Green,  in 
a  medley  of  utterances,  which,  addressed  sometimes  to  his  horse 
and  sometimes  to  Hiram,  and  sometimes  to  the  imaginary  Aboli- 
tionists, formed  a  grotesque  oration. 

"Oh,  you  won't  stop,  will  ye?— (a  jerk)— You  d— d  Aboli- 
tionists— (turning  back  his  head) — Come  down,  ye  beast ! — (to 
his  horse) — free  country !  every  body  do  as  he  chooses !  Can't 
stop  me,  tell  ye — why  don't  you  stop — hold  up  !  No !  I  won't 
hold  my  jaw,  for  none  of  ye !     I'll  break  your  jaw  if  you  don't 

stop,  ye  de beast — Abolitionists — tell  ye — !"  and  with  that 

he  was  gone. 

"I'm  as  much  of  a  democrat  as  he  is."  said  Hiram,  "  and  I've 
alias  gone  with  my  party.  But,  I  tell  ye  boys,  this  is  no  party 
matter.  This  is  a  black  business,  and  there  ain't  but  one  way  to 
settle  it.  We've  tried  the  votes,  and  they  won't  stand  that.  Now 
we'll  try  the  bullets,  and  the  side  that  can  stand  that  longest  is 
goin'  to  rule  this  country,  that's  all." 

Old  Mr.  Turf  mould  ventured  to  say,  without  meaning  any 
harm — merely  as  a  moral  reflection — "  Ah,  Mr.  Beers,  it's  awful 
killin'  folks,  and  huddlin'  'em  into  holes  without  funerals  and 
decent  fixins  of  any  kind." 

"Shet  up,  you  blasted  old  owl!  "  said  Hiram.  "This  thing's 
goin'  to  be  fought  out,  that's  sartain,  and  we  won't  have  nobody 


404  Norwood ;  or, 

hangin'  back  at  home.  A  man  that  won't  fight  ■vvhen  his  flag's 
fired  on,  ain't  worth  a  dead  nit." 

Old  Deacon  Trowbridge  was  talking  with  Judge  Bacon,  to 
whom  he  usually  deferred  with  profound  respect  for  his  legal 
learning. 

"I  hope,"  said  Judge  Bacon,  with  calm  and  gentle  tones,  "that 
the  Government  will  forbear  and  not  be  in  haste  to  strike  again. 
We  ought  not  to  think  of  coercion.  Our  Southern  brethren  will 
come  to  their  reason,  if  we  are  patient,  and  wait  for  their  passions 
to  subside." 

"I  tell  ye,  Judge,  we  ain't  goin'  to  wait.  We've  waited  long 
enough,  and  this  is  what  we've  got  for  it !  Secede !  rob  the  Gov- 
ernment !  shoot  our  flag !  and  kill  our  soldiers,  shut  up  in  the 
fort,  like  chickens  in  a  coop,  and  then  not  fight  ?  You  might  as 
well  have  a  Day  of  Judgment,  and  nobody  hurt.  If  we  aint  goin' 
to  fight  now,  we'd  better  swap  clothes  with  the  women  and  let 
tliem  try  awhile.     I  tell  ye  we  will  fight !  " 

Deacon  Trowbridge  was  like  a  green  hickory  fire  on  a  winter's 
morning.  It  requires  the  utmost  skill  and  blowing  to  get  it  to 
burn,  but  when  once  it  is  started,  it  blazes  and  crackles  with  im- 
mense heat,  and  speedily  drives  aU  those  who  were  cuddling  and 
shiveriog  about  it,  far  back  into  the  room. 

On  he  went,  indignant  at  the  Judge,  and  talking  to  every  one 
he  met.  "  It's  come !  Ye  can't  help  it.  I  don't  want  to  help  it ! 
It's  the  Lord's  will  and  I'm  desperate  willin'.  If  my  boys — some 
on  'em — don't  go,  I'll  disown  'em.  Don't  want  no  cowards  on  my 
farm  !  " 

Home  with  Dr.  Wentworth  walked  Dr.  Buell.  He  had  lately 
grown  even  more  intimate  than  during  the  years  before.  He  was 
a  lone  man,  subject  to  those  depressions  which  follow  severe  study. 
Such  moods  in  him  were  relieved  by  the  gentle  stimulus  of  family 
life.  He  was  so  simple  and  sincere  in  manners  that  every  one  in 
the  house  felt  it  a  pleasure  to  serve  him.  He  thus  gathered  the 
fruits  of  a  wise  household  without  either  the  care  or  responsibility 
of  maintaining  its  organization. 

Agate  Bissell,  who  was  housekeeper,  teacher,  nurse,  and  com- 
panion, doing  the  work  of  five  ordinary  persons,  with  yet  much 
time  and  energy  to  spare,  met  the  doctor  and  minister  at  the  door. 
She  looked  eagerly,  but  silently,  upon  them,  with  hungry  eyes,  as 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England.  405 

if  she  besought  some  word  of  sympathy.     The  conversation  wen 
on.     Instead  of  giving  it  in  broken  fragments,  we  condense  the 
remarks  of  Dr.  "Wentworth,  as  if  it  were  one  speech. 

"It  must  come!  the  argument  is  ended!  My  judgment  has 
long  told  me  that  a  conflict  of  arms  must  grow  out  of  such  radical 
conflict  of  principles.  But  my  feelings  of  hopefuluess  constantly 
set  aside  my  political  logic,  and  like  others,  I  did  not  expect  blood- 
shed. For  thirty  years,  it  is  now  apparent,  that  the  two  great 
halves  of  this  nation  were  deepening  into  radically  antagonistic 
convictions — not  about  politics,  in  its  common  sense,  but  upon  the 
whole  question  of  humanity  which  underlies  and  finally  controls 
states,  churches,  philosophy,  and  religion  itself.  The  only  hope 
was  in  localizing  these  influences  and  keeping  them  apart.  That 
could  have  been  done  had  there  not  been  a  central  government, 
which  both  parts  strove  to  appropriate  and  control.  AYe  now  see 
that  the  Federal  Government  had  little  power  to  control  and  much 
to  divide  the  nation.  That  will  always  be  the  weak  place  in  our 
nation.  The  prodigious  power  which  is  generated  in  wide-lying 
States,  absolutely  independent  and  sovereign,  except  in  a  few  arbi- 
trary and  artificial  arrangements,  cannot  be  controlled  by  the 
Federal  Government,  except  by  such  an  increase  of  its  power  as 
would  prove  fatal  to  local  liberty. 

"  T\' bene ver  a  considerable  number  of  contiguous  States  shall 
be  united  by  common  interests  and  passions,  in  resisting  the  party 
that  controls  the  Federal  Government,  we  shall  be  in  danger  of 
rebellion. 

"It  is  slavery  to-day.  The  next  time  it  may  be  a  commercial 
influence.  But  whatever  it  is,  it  must  be  some  unifying  influence 
which,  like  slavery,  has  educated  the  community  to  diverse, 
strange,  and  unnational  customs,  morals,  political  principles,  and 
civic  feelings,  that  can  secretly  organize  such  a  body  of  States 
together  as  to  frame  a  formidable  rebellion.  Because  men  now 
are  seeking  to  pluck  the  unripe  fruit  of  separation  and  new  nation- 
ality, it  does  not  follow  that  in  coming  times  the  ripe  fruit  may 
not  drop  of  itself,  without  opposition,  and  be  gathered  up  cheer- 
fully and  willingly.  States  will  hardly  be  allowed  to  draw  off 
because  they  differ.  That  will  make  them  enemies.  But  if  they 
are  agreed,  and  divide  in  some  future  day  simply  because  the  vast 
bulk  of  such  an  Empire  of  States  is  too  great  to  be  conveniently 


406  Nonvood. 

grouped  in  one  Federal  Government,  there  might  be  less  resistance. 
Now  the  tendency  is  setting  toward  unity.  That  may  expend 
itself.  The  next  tide  may  he  to  variety.  But  who  can  tell? 
National  life  allows  no  prophet  to  unveil  it. 

**  Probably  if  you  and  I  were  in  the  South,  we  should  join 
with  it.  This  conflict  is  but  opening.  It  looks  now  as  if  all  the 
Southern  States  must  be  swept  into  the  movement.  The  State 
feeling  is  stronger  than  tbe  National.  A  crushing  defeat  might 
destroy  the  movement;  but  a  Southern  victory  will  sweep  the 
whole  South  like  a  flame.  In  that  case  all  the  best  men  will  join 
it.  "We  should  not  expect  too  much  from  human  nature.  Our 
friend  Heywood  is  honorable,  and  will  resist  disunion ;  but  when 
he  sees  it  accomplished,  he  will  go  with  his  State,  and  probably 
join  the  Southern  army." 

Alice  Cathcart  was  one  of  those  whose  stillness,  both  in  speech 
and  motion,  was  so  great  that  her  very  presence  seemed  swallowed 
up  in  the  personality  of  others.  She  sat  by  the  doctor's  wife,  as 
if  she  were  only  the  shadow  which  Mrs.  "Wentworth  cast.  The 
conversation  had  reached  the  doctor's  remark  about  the  young 
Virginian,  when  suddenly,  and  with  passionate  vehemence,  she 
exclaimed : 

"Never !  He  will  never  betray  his  country !  It  is  a  shame  to 
slander  one  who  cannot  answer  for  himself!  " 

Had  a  piece  of  artillery  gone  off  in  the  room  it  would  hardly 
have  startled  the  company  more  than  such  a  speech  from  the 
gentle,  silent  Alice !  The  doctor  smiled  and  would  have  replied, 
but  Alice  disappeared.  Mrs.  Wentworth  found  her  in  a  flood  of 
tears,  and  folded  the  dear  child  to  her  bosom,  without  words, 
comforting  her  by  the  sympathy  of  a  loving  embrace. 

The  sun  had  gone  down.  Every  household  in  Norwood  and 
wide  about  was  a  scene  of  excitement.  That  night  prayer  was  a 
reality  !  Never  before  had  the  children  heard  from  their  fathers' 
lips  such  supplications  for  the  country.  Never  before  had  the 
children's  hearts  been  open  to  join  so  fervently  in  prayer  them- 
selves. Men  seemed  to  be  conscious  that  they  were  helpless  in 
the  presence  of  an  immeasurable  dauger !  By  Faith  they  laid  their 
hearts  upon  the  bosom  of  God,  till  they  felt  the  beatings  of  that 
great  Heart  whose  courses  give  life  and  law  to  the  Universe  ! 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

ECnOKS   FKOM   THE  ^'OIlTU. 

"  TVnEKEAB,  The  laws  of  the  United  States  have  been  for  some 
time  past,  and  now  are,  opposed,  and  the  execution  thereof  ob- 
structed in  the  States  of  South  Carolina,  Georgia,.  Alabama,  Flor- 
ida, Mississippi,  Louisiana  and  Texas,  by  combinations  too  power- 
ful to  be  suppressed  by  the  ordinary  course  of  judicial  proceedings, 
or  by  the  powers  vested  in  the  Marshals  by  law  ;  now,  therefore, 
I,  Abkaham  Lincolx,  President  of  the  United  States,  in  virtue  of 
the  power  in  me  vested  by  the  Constitution  and  the  laws,  have 
thought  fit  to  call  forth,  and  do  hereby  call  forth,  the  militia  of  the 
several  States  of  the  Union,  to  the  aggregate  number  of  75,000,  in 
order  to  suppress  said  combinations,  and  to  cause  the  laws  to  be 
duly  executed." 

This  was  the  answer  of  the  people,  speaking  by  then*  Govern- 
ment, to  the  acts  of  secession,  and  to  the  assault  upon  the  nation^s 
flag  and  fortress  at  Fort  Sumter.  Dry  words  they  seem,  formal 
and  stately.  But  there  was  fire  in  them  to  kindle  a  flame  such 
that  all  the  world  paused,  as  if  a  continent  were  on  fire ! 

Our  noblest  sentiments,  when  assailed,  never  dehberate.  A 
wise  man  foreseasons  his  honor,  love,  purity,  patriotism,  with 
reason.  When  touched  with  harm  they  burst  forth  into  action  as 
instantaneously  as  powder  touched  with  fire  into  flame !  When 
the  flag  was  abased,  the  nation  shuddered.  N'o  one  had  suspect- 
ed how  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  people  was  the  sentiment  of 
patriotism.  For  two  generations  men  had  been  buying  and  sell- 
ing, making  and  distributing,  until  the  dust  and  shavings  of  the 
manufactory  seemed  to  have  covered  down  all  heroic  sentiments. 
Long  peace  and  exceeding  prosperity  ha  i  shaped  popular  politics 
into  a  greedy  game  of  policy,  and  great  principles,  no  longer  de- 
bated or  tolerated,  sat  in  the  capitol,  like  decrepit  old  men  croon- 
ing of  the  golden  days  of  old. 

The  lowering  of  the  nation's  flag  before  the  guns  of  South 
18* 


408  Norwood ;  or, 

Carolina  pierced  the  pride  and  honor  of  the  North  to  the  quick. 
The  outburst  was  universal  and  unpremeditated.  The  morning 
and  evening  of  a  single  day  saw  peace  utterly  laid  aside,  and  twenty 
millions  of  people  filled  with  the  spirit  of  war.  Men  would  not 
tolerate  argument,  and  trampled  upon  mercenary  considerations. 
Before,  men  had  seemed  swallowed  up  in  material  interests,  and 
dead  to  heroic  sentiments.  The  trumpet  sounded  the  resurrec- 
tion, and  in  an  instant  they  came  forth  into  a  life  of  heroic  senti- 
ment, and,  placing  honor,  duty  and  patriotism  high  above  all  sor- 
did interests,  they  offered  up  to  their  country  their  ease,  their 
wealth,  and  life  itself!  Passions  there  were,  but  they  were  aux- 
iliaries of  the  moral  sentiments,  lending  to  them  force  and  fire. 
For  a  people's  war— a  free,  intelligent,  religious  people — is  not 
bred  either  of  a  greedy  avarice,  nor  of  royal  pride  and  ambition. 
Itwasa  war  for  the  Commonwealth,  nay,  more  refined  yet,  a  war, 
unparalleled  in  magnitude  and  cost,  waged  for  the  Principles  on 
which  alone  commonwealths  can  stand !  It  was  kindled  not  by 
the  young,  but  by  the  old  and  sage  as  well.  It  was  fed  not  by  the 
ignorant  and  violent,  but  by  women,  scholars.  Christians.  The  re- 
cruiting ground  was  not  in  low  and  dark  corners,  among  the 
ignorant  and  roving,  nor  chiefly  among  laboring  men,  but  pre- 
eminently in  academies  and  colleges,  in  Sabbath  schools  and 
churches.  No  one  held  himself  aloof.  There  was  a  generous 
competition  who  should  go,  and  men  strove  for  a  place  in  mili- 
tary companies  as  at  other  times  for  honor  and  wealth.  The 
whole  community  were  moved  to  the  core  by  the  power  of  tlie 
unseen.  It  was  an  enthusiasm  for  an  abstract  sentiment,  for  an 
invisible  quality  of  patriotism — for  law,  for  liberty,  for  govern- 
ment. This  was  a  sublime  spectacle,  of  the  spirit  of  government 
rising  up  in  the  very  sources  of  all  government! 

The  same  scenes  were  at  the  same  time  occurring  in  the  South- 
ern States.  Even  more  fiery  was  the  outbreak,  because  the  peo- 
ple were  of  more  demonstrative  natures.  Pity  it  is  that  admira- 
tion for  the  uprising  of  millions  of  men  to  found  a  new  State 
should  be  stripped  of  its  sublimity  by  the  debasing  conceptions  of 
the  new  civilization  which  blinded  its  leaders !  Yet  our  moral 
disapprobation  of  the  secret  and  potential  causes  which  were  at 
work  need  not  withhold  from  the  common  people  the  credit  of 
the  most  earnest  sincerity,  witnessed  by  offering  up  all  that  man 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  409 

holds  dear  for  the  cause  which  they  had  been  misled  to  believe 
was  the  cause  of  liberty  and  of  honor  I 

And  thus  it  came  to  pass  that  thirty  millions  of  men,  divided 
into  two  bands,  went  seeking  each  other  through  the  darkness  and 
mystery  of  war.  Neither  party  considered  or  cared  to  ponder  what 
was  before  it.  Like  two  warriors  standing  on  the  opposite  banks 
of  a  swollen  stream,  they  went  down  in  the  darkness  of  the  night 
to  find  and  grapple  with  each  other  in  the  turbulent  and  danger- 
ous ford ! 

Toward  both  parties  came  travelling  great  sorrows  and  dis- 
asters. But  looking  full  at  the  future,  neither  of  them  saw  aught 
of  that  which  it  contained. 

Already  was  descending,  as  in  the  apocalyptic  vision,  the 
mountain  of  fire  which  was  cast  into  the  sea  of  blood,  and  no  man 
heard  its  rush,  or  knew  its  dread  disasters,  until  all  over  the  land 
fire  and  blood  were  cast  up  like  a  storm  spray  driven  in  from  the 
ocean  ! 

Are  men  less  sensitive  than  metal  ?  Shall  barometers  foretell 
whirlwinds,  give  alarm  of  tornadoes  half  a  continent  distant,  and 
yet  shall  a  whole  hemisphere  of  storms  move  in  upon  society,  and 
no  man  feel  the  chill  of  the  shadow  which  they  cast  forward? 
Right  before  the  nation  were  clouds  dripping  blood,  and  full  of 
wasting  fire.  I^one  saw.  Right  before  them  were  heaped-up 
corpses,  armies  of  the  dead,  suffering,  fear,  famine  and  pestilence, 
but  men  heeded  them  not ! 

ISTeither,  any  more,  did  they  see  the  new  heavens  and  the  new 
earth  that  followed  the  convulsions  of  the  old,  a  nobler  liberty,  a 
purer  justice,  a  better  friendship,  a  more  lasting  brotherhood ! 

Fort  Sumter  was  evacuated  April  14 ;  the  President's  procla- 
mation came  Monday,  the  15th  ;  and  before  sundown  of  that  night. 
Barton  Cathcart's  company  were  on  the  green,  ready  to  leave  on 
the  cars  that  night.  This  promptitude  was  the  more  remarkable 
because  at  least  one  half  of  its  numbers  lived  out  of  the  village, 
and  several  of  them  some  miles  distant.  Arthur  Wentworth,  now 
twenty  years  old,  fortunately  was  at  home  from  college,  and 
promptly  joined  his  company. 

Tliere  is  no  one  scene  which  so  stirs  a  country  town  as  the  de- 
parture from  it  of  the  first  companies  for  war.  Mothers,  sisters, 
and  lovers  look  upon  the  men  with  yearning  admiration ;  and  the 


410  Norwood ;  or, 

imagination  heightens  the  sense  of  mysterious  danger  into  which 
they  are  going.  But  on  this  day  parents  were  scarcely  less  eager 
to  send,  than  were  their  sons  to  go.  The  city  of  Washington — the 
capital  was  threatened ! 

'Biah  Cathcart  came  to  town,  with  his  wife  Eachel.  He  was 
calm  and  stern.     She  was  singularly  exalted.     Her  soul  s'aid  : 

"  What  am  I  that  the  Lord  should  permit  me  to  send  my  son 
to  the  defence  of  his  Government  ?  Great  are  his  mercies,  O  my 
soul." 

Miss  Wentworth  was  absent  from  home.  She  had  gone  from 
Boston  down  to  Maine,  before  the  tidings  of  war  broke  over  the 
country.  Immediately  she  started  for  home.  But,  so  promptly 
had  Barton  moved  that  he  had  been  in  Boston  several  days  before 
Kose  reached  Norwood.  But  Barton,  in  the  whirl  of  preparation, 
had  found  time  to  write  a  few  lines  to  Eose: 

"  April  15,  1861. 

"  To-day  I  leave  for  the  field  upon  a  sudden  summons.  My 
whole  soul  consents.  I  was  never  more  cheerful.  But  a  single 
shadow  lies  upon  me.  At  last,  let  me  speak  plainly.  Rose.  I 
am  sad  at  leaving  you,  whom  I  love  more  than  father  and 
mother,  or  all  beside.  This  wiU  surprise  you,  but  it  is  no  sudden 
experience.  It  has  been  the  secret  of  my  life.  From  my  boyhood  I 
have  cherished  it ;  whether  with  more  of  pain  than  of  cheer  I  can- 
not tell.  The  hunger  of  the  heart  in  a  proud  nature,  sensitive  and 
silent,  is  hard  to  bear.  And  yet  I  would  not  have  been  without 
this  love.  It  has  made  so  much  of  my  life  that  if  it  were  taken 
out  scarce  any  thing  would  remain  worth  keeping.  It  has  inspired 
and  cheered,  it  has  chidden  and  restrained.  In  the  fire  of  this  love, 
whose  flame  I  might  not  show,  every  feeling  of  my  life  has  been 
tempered. 

"  Only  within  the  year  have  I  been  in  circumstances  to  justify 
me  in  an  honorable  solicitation.  But  a  shadow  feU  upon  me. 
Another  came  before  me.  Pardon  me.  I  would  not  speak  of  it, 
but  I  may  never  return,  and  for  our  childhood  friendship's  sake  you 
wiU  indulge  me  iu  the  sad  pleasure  at  last  of  speaking  out  my 
heart. 

"If  only  I  knew  that  your  interest  was  with  another,  all 
struggle  would  cease.  Your  happiness  would  shed  some  faint  joy 
on  ray  disappointment.     I  know  not  whether,  even  if  you  wero 


Villa  (/e  Life  in  New  En  (/land.  411 

free,  you  could  love  me.  Have  I  said  too  much  ?  It  is  as  nothing 
to  the  unsaid.  The  silence  of  my  heart  through  years  now  yearns 
for  an  expression.  Only  let  me  hear  one  word  from  you  ;  if  not 
in  Boston,  then  at  "Washington.  I  pray  you  do  not  send  me  to 
the  war  without  a  word  to  say  that  you  are  not  offended — to  say 
more  would  be  a  joy  too  great  to  hope  !  But  let  me  not  go  in  the 
chill  of  utter  silence.  Baeton." 

This  letter  he  hastily  did  up,  and  being  obliged  to  employ 
other  hands,  for  a  hundred  errands,  he  entrusted  this  to  faithful 
Pete,  with  instructions  to  convey  it  promptly  to  Dr.  TVentworth's, 
and  place  it  in  the  hands  of  Dr.  TVentworth  or  of  his  wife. 

Pete  had  been  on  hand  all  day,  executing  Barton's  orders  with 
remarkable  alacrity.  It  is  doubtful  whether  he  knew  what  aU  the 
excitement  was  about.  He  had  gone  post-haste  to  Riddell's  to  serve 
a  notice  on  a  member  of  the  company.  He  had  ridden  two  miles  in 
another  du-ectioD,  as  only  Pete  could  ride  on  a  like  errand.  He  had 
been  out  to  Bid  well's,  and  to  Carrington's,  and  to  Eaton's,  and  cross- 
ing through  the  woods,  and  past  the  red  school-house,  he  had  come 
down  by  Marsh's,  and  Morris',  warning  one  man  at  each  place. 

""What  is  it,  Pete?  "  said  grandma  Oarrington. 
I      "  You're  wanted,"  said  he  with  a  half  guzzling  langh.     "  Cap- 
tain Cathcart  wants  Tom  riglit  off,  with  all  his  regimentals. 
They're  going  to-night." 

''Tom  is  out  ploughin'.  Here,  Roxy!  Roxy!  "Where's  that 
child?  "When  you  don't  want  her,  she's  right  under  your  feet, 
and  when  you  do  want  her  you  couldn't  catch  her  with  a  fine 
tooth  comb.  I'll  go  myself.  My  father  was  out  in  Seventy-six, 
and  my  boys  have  got  his  blood,  I  guess." 

The  old  woman  was  past  seventy — white-haired,  wrinkled, 
sharp  and  nimble.  Away  she  went  over  fence  and  field,  saying  to 
Pete: 

"  You  go  'long ;  the  boy  '11  be  there  afore  you  are." 

At  Eaton's  they  were  all  at  home,  and  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
moment  Pete  was  offered  a  little  rum.  Now  Pete  had  never 
joined  any  temperance  society,  and  could  not  therefore  break  a 
pledge.  Looking  for  a  second  at  the  glass,  as  one  recognizes  a 
long-absent  friend,  his  lips  parted,  and  the  rum  disappeared  as  a 
drop  of  water  sinks  into  parched  ground. 


412  Norwood ;  or. 

Thence  Pete  betook  himself,  now  inwardly  comforted,  around 
the  Owl  Swamp,  over  on  to  the  turnpike  to  Belden's ;  but  Belden's 
son%Will  had  gone  into  town,  partly  on  an  errand,  and  partly  for 
news,  so  that  he  would  get  his  warning  in  Norwood.  The  old 
man  was  one  of  the  hard  cases  in  iN'ew  England — foul-mouthed, 
ugly,  and  regularly  soaked  with  liquor.  Yet  his  head  was  so  solid 
that  he  seldom  lost  his  keen  judgment  in  a  bargain,  or  his  manage- 
ment of  property.  His  wife  was  an  earnest  Christian  woman, 
with  the  face  of  a  sufferer.  Her  home  was  a  purgatory.  But  five 
children  were  reared  there  in  virtue  and  honor,  every  one  abhor- 
ring strong  drink.  The  eldest  was  sergeant  in  Barton's  company. 
Old  Belden  liked  nothing  better  than  to  "season  a  man,"  as  he 
called  it. 

Poor  Pete  had  lingering  about  him  a  bewitching  memory  of 
his  last  glass,  and  the  sight  of  the  decanter  put  him  into  a  radiant 
mood.  A  large  glass  was  poured  off,  the  old  man  applauding  and 
swearing  horribly.  But  Pete's  instinct  of  obedience  was  proof 
against  further  persuasion.  He  knew  that  Barton  had  ordered 
him  to  report  to  him  again  in  the  quickest  possible  time,  and  so,  in 
spite  of  the  sparkling  of  the  liquor  which  old  Belden  held  up  before 
his  face,  and  shook  it  till  it  foamed,  he  departed.    It  was  full  time. 

On  his  way  back  he  thought  of  ever  so  many  funny  things,  and 
saw  ever  so  many  queer  sights.  At  any  rate,  at  every  other  step 
he  sizzled  out  a  laugh. 

At  any  other  time  Barton  would  have  perceived  Pete's  con- 
dition ;  but  now  amid  the  excitement  which  pervaded  the  town, 
he  scarcely  noticed  his  exhilaration. 

He  gave  him  the  letter  to  Miss  Rose,  with  particular  direction 
not  to  lose  it,  and  to  hand  it  that  night  to  Dr.  Wentworth.  One 
or  two  other  papers,  also,  Pete  was  charged  to  deliver,  all  of  which 
were  duly  placed  in  Pete's  hat ;  where,  also,  were  stowed  his  red 
cotton  handkerchief,  two  or  three  snarls  of  different  sized  strings, 
a  paper  of  fish-hooks,  and  a  bit  of  newspaper  over  all.  Every  mo- 
ment was  precious  if  Pete  was  to  fulfil  his  errands. 

His  senses  were  fast  retiring  into  obscurity;  yet  he  had  re- 
tained the  impulse  to  go  to  Dr.  TTentworth's  after  he  had  lost  all 
idea  of  the  reason  for  going.  The  Doctor  was  called  after  tea  into 
the  kitchen  to  see  Pete,  who  at  once,  giggling  and  shuffling,  made 
a  faint  attempt  to  give  him  from  his  hat  a  paper. 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England,  413 

The  doctor  read : 

"At  the  last  moment,  I  have  got  me  a  few  things,  as  you  suggested,^  at 
Wadsworth's.    Please  settle  the  bill.  Bartox." 

"  What's  all  this  ?  This  must  be  for  Barton's  father.  I'll  give 
it  to  him  to-morrow.  Mrs.  Good,  you  had  better  let  Pete  lie  down 
in  the  out-room." 

What  became  of  Barton's  letter  to  Kose  was  never  certainly 
known.  Pete  was  up  before  daylight  the  next  morning,  trying  to 
get  some  water ;  and  then  he  kindled  the  kitchen  fire,  using  the 
scraps  of  paper  in  his  hat  to  set  it  off  with.  But,  certain  it  is  that 
Rose  never  received  it,  and  wondered  and  grieved  that  Barton 
should  again  have  left  town  abruptly  without  a  word  of  farewell. 

For,  the  second  day  after  his  departure,  came  Rose  home.  Her 
brother  was  gone,  and  she  had  passed  within  a  few  squares  of  him 
in  Boston,  not  dreaming  that  he  was  in  the  city. 

"  Mother,  did  Barton  call  to  say  good-bye  ?  " 

"  He  was  too  busy.  We  all  went  out  to  see  him  off,  and  shook 
hands  with  him  at  the  cars.  1  never  saw  him  so  radiant.  He  stood 
evidently  the  first  man  among  men  in  that  hour.  And  his  military 
dress  was  wonderfully  becoming.    Really  I  quite  fell  in  love  with 

him." 

Rose  was  silent  for  a  time,  and  then,  with  enforced  natural- 
ness, asked: 

"  Did  you  say  that  Barton  left  any  word  for  me  ?  " 

"  Nothing  that  I  heard  of.  There  was  only  half  a  day  to  sum- 
mon his  company,  and  get  them  away.  Our  Arthur  was  in  great 
spirits.  He  looked  like  a  rose  among  those  tan-faced  country- 
boys.  You  know  that  his  complexion  is  beautiful,  and  his  chestnut 
hair  curled  out  from  under  his  military  cap  most  becomingly !  " 

Rose  sat  silent,  buried  in  thought.  Early  she  plead  the  fatigue 
of  journeying  and  retired.  It  was  but  masked  somnolency.  Sleep 
sometimes  courts  you  till  you  yield,  and  then  coquettishly  flies. 
So  it  was  with  Rose. 

There  are  many  kinds  of  wakefulness.  If  trouble  be  real,  if 
danger  be  apparent,  wakefulness  may  have  a  useful  end.  One 
may  while  away  the  Avhole  night  in  processes  of  investigation.  All 
distractions  are  gone.  Neither  light  nor  noise  lay  any  tax  upon 
the  senses.     They  rest.     All  the  vital  force  is  concentrated  in  the 


414  Norwood, 

thinkiDg  part,  and,  in  the  darkness,  especially  following  early 
sleep,  and  just  preceding  the  morning,  the  mind  easily  penetrates 
things  obscure,  and  disentangles  things  perplexed,  and  unrolls 
things  most  involved. 

There  may  be  a  sleeplessness  of  pleasurable  excitement.  And 
sometimes  this  is  an  exquisite  pleasure.  One  has  something  to 
learn  of  luxury  tvho  has  never  lain  awake  with  joy.  One  then 
seems  to  float  peacefully  in  an  atmosphere  of  bliss.  Pure,  continu- 
ous delight  flows  from  every  nerve,  and  from  every  faculty. 

But  there  is  an  excitement  of  half-born  feelings,  of  evanescent 
fancies,  where  thoughts  but  begin,  and  vanish,  where  feelings  start 
without  developing  into  definite  forms,  where  the  whole  mind  is 
played  over  by  the  checkered  light  and  shade  of  things  illusory 
and  imaginative ;  when,  as  it  were  out  of  the  air,  the  spectres  of 
coming  emotions  cast  pale  shadows  upon  the  sensitive  brain,  which 
vanish  when  you  would  inspect  them,  and  return  the  moment  you 
cease  to  analyze  them.  How  welcome  is  the  cool  morning  after 
such  a  night  of  spirit  watching !  How  good  and  pleasant  is  it  to 
come  again  to  things  that  may  be  touched,  to  the  dew,  to  the  things 
it  lies  upon,  to  the  song  of  birds,  and  to  the  companionship  of 
friends !  Such  as  this  last  excitement  filled  Rose's  night,  and  glad 
was  her  morning. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

FIKST-FKUITS. 

The  most  striking  trait  in  camp  life  to  Barton  was  the  facility 
shown  by  his  men  in  adapting  themselves  to  entirely  new  circum- 
stances. It  was  a  complete  revolution  in  their  method  of  life. 
Many  of  his  men  were  accustomed  to  all  the  refinements  of  wealth, 
and  all  of  them  had  been  reared  in  abundance.  There  were  fifteen 
graduates  of  colleges,  and  five  under-graduates.  There  were,  be- 
sides, several  students  of  medicine  and  law,  and  five  men  who 
were  in  commercial  business.  The  others  were  intelligent 
mechanics,  machinists,  factory  men,  young  men  from  the  farm, 
and  from  that  large  and  peculiar  class,  in  New  England,  who  may 
be  called  Jjargain-maTcers — men  who,  without  a  regular  business, 
are  energetic  and  enterprising  in  a  thousand  money-making  ways, 
now  dealing  in  cattle,  or  buying  up  in  autumn  whatever  line  of 
produce  promises  to  advance  in  market ;  in  short,  the  movable 
merchants,  the  cavalry  of  trade.  "With  one  accord  they  fell  into 
the  proprieties  of  their  new  life,  and  in  a  few  days,  like  a  well- 
made  machine,  every  thing  began  to  move  smoothly.  By  the  last 
of  the  week  the  regiment  to  which  they  belonged  was  despatched 
to  "Washington.  Young  Arthur  Wentworth  had  been  elected 
second  lieutenant.  He  was  one  of  the  rare  cases  in  which  a 
robust  virility  exists  in  connection  with  an  almost  feminine  beauty 
and  delicacy  of  organization.  His  curling  hair  was  of  a  rich  chest- 
nut color,  his  complexion  almost  of  dazzling  whiteness,  with  a 
cheek  sufi'used  with  carmine,  bine  eyes,  features  that  did  not  wait 
for  after-life  to  give  them  expression,  but  which  from  youth  were 
shapely  and  exquisite.  So  much  beauty  is  indeed  a,  misfortune  in 
a  man  who  has  not  a  manly  force  to  lift  it  clear  above  effeminacy. 
That  force  Arthur  Wentworth  had.  None  was  quicker  of  foot  in 
all  robust  games.  He  had  practised  athletic  exercises  and  excelled 
all  his  fellows.  He  could  run  faster,  jump  farther,  climb  with 
more  agility  than  the  best.  He  was  a  leader  on  the  base-ball 
ground — loud  and  merry  in  his  outcry,  intense  and  impetuous  at 


416  Norwood;  or, 

foot-ball.  He  lacked  sometliing  of  strength  at  wrestling,  but  made 
it  np  in  deft  agility.  He  was  the  pride  of  his  class,  and  so  pure 
and  noble  in  his  loving  nature,  that  neither  envy  nor  jealousy,  as 
yet,  had  been  shown  by  any.  All  the  signs  pointed  him  out  as  a 
poet.  All  the  signs,  too,  pointed  him  out  as  an  artist.  But  not 
less  did  he  promise  to  become  an  orator.  Fate  made  him  a  sol- 
dier. To  Barton  he  was  dear  for  doubled  reasons — for  his  own 
sake  and  for  another's.  In  the  company  and  regiment  he  became 
a  universal  favorite  from  his  modest  fidelity  and  thoroughness  in 
duty,  and  for  the  rare  social  gifts  which  he  displayed  in  the  social 
life  of  the  camp. 

To  his  sister  Eose.  some  months  later,  he  wrote  : 

"  "Washington,  July  14,  186L 

"Ah,  Eose,  you  should  be  a  soldier!  or,  if  that  is  forbidden, 
come  as  a  fairy  vivandiere,  or  even  as  a  fairy,  and  hover  about  us, 
and  be  to  us  as  the  light  that  flashes  upon  our  cold  steel — a  flame 
of  beauty  around  the  instruments  of  death.  Camp-life,  the  march, 
the  drill,  is  a  perpetual  dream.  I  vrake  into  a  surprise  of  pleasure 
each  morning.  My  enjoyment  reminds  me  of  Parson  Buell's  favo- 
rite expression  in  prayer,  '  Thy  mercies  are  new  every  morning 
and  fresh  every  moment ! '  Our  Captain  Cathcart  is  a  wonder ! 
There  was  a  Barton  Cathcart,  you  will  recollect !  Do  not  imagine 
that  your  Barton  Cathcart  and  our  Captain  Cathcart  are  the  same. 
Ko  more  to  be  compared  are  they  than  the  seed  is  to  the  blossom ! 
Our  Cathcart  is  your  Barton  developed !  He  drills  the  regiment, 
and,  as  Harris  has  gone  home,  it  is  feared,  to  die,  Cathcait  is  to 
be  major.  His  commission  is  looked  for  daily.  All  the  officers 
come  to  him  on  military  questions.  His  reading,  really,  has  been 
extraordinary.  He  is  always  letting  out  something  that  no  one 
dreamed  was  in  him.  He  works  at  his  men  all  day,  and  at  his 
books  all  night.  I  go  to  sleep,  and  he  is  studying.  I  wake,  and 
he  is  still  at  his  books  and  maps.  I  infer,  therefore,  that  he  never 
sleeps,  and  that  is  the  opinion  of  the  camp.  Yet  he  is  never  fagged 
out,  but  affable,  obliging,  and  the  very  life  of  good-fellowship. 
His  care  for  me  is  beyond  words.  Though  he  is  rigorous  toward 
me  more  than  toward  any  other  officer,  yet  I  feel  that  theie  is  a 
tenderness  in  his  strictness  which  is  very  touching.  By  the  way. 
Barton's  advancement  will  be  luck  for  several  of  us.      I  go  up  a 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  417 

step,  and  am  to  be  first-lieutenant.  That's  very  well  for  a  begin- 
ning. But  I'll  come  home  a  general !  Prepare  the  ceremonies 
for  my  return  I  I  read  Major  Cathcart  your  last  letter.  It  was 
so  full  of  home-news  that  I  knew  it  would  please  him.  When 
I  finished,  he  said,  'Is  that  all?'  and  his  voice  was  so  altered 
that  I  looked  up  and  saw  that  he  was  unwell.  He  left  for  the 
air,  and  that  night  did  not  study  at  all,  but  was  out  most  of  the 
night. 

"  'I  tell  you,  Major,'  said  I,  'by  virtue  of  my  authority  as  a 
doctor's  son,  that  you  shall  not  tax  yourself  as  you  do.  You  are 
making  yourself  sick.' 

" '  In  a  few  days  we  shall  move,  and  then  we  shall  all  have 
out-door  exercise  enough,  and  too  much,  or  I  am  mistaken.' 

"  '"What  do  you  mean?  You  don't  doubt  that  we  shall  whip 
the  rebels  ofi'-hand.  If  you  do,  you  are  about  the  only  man  in 
camp  that  thinks  so.' 

"  '  It  will  be  all  luck  if  we  do.  Our  men  are  green.  The  army 
is  no  army.  They  ought  to  be  reduced,  for  two  months  more,  by 
the  most  rigorous  discipline.  TTe  may  win — or  lose.  The  chances 
are  even.  Enthusiasm  is  good  to  raise  men  upon,  but  discipline  is 
the  only  thing  to  fight  on.' 

"  'But  it  is  the  same  with  the  rebels — they  are  as  green  as 
we  are,' 

"  '  Yes,  that  is  true ;  and  therefore  I  say  that  there  is  no  calcu- 
lation possible.  Every  thing  is  contingent.  They  may  fight  or 
run  away — who  knows  ?  "We  may  stand  up  well,  or  a  panic  may 
seize  our  raw  troops.' 

"  '"Why  don't  you  say  so  to  McDowell  ? ' 

"  '  There  is  no  need.  He  already  has  exhausted  his  influence 
to  prevent  precipitation.  But  there  is  such  a  clamor  for  an 
advance  that  we  shall  have  to  go.  Politicians,  and  editors,  and 
red-faced  patriots  have  it  aU  their  own  way,  and  old  military  men 
are  the  only  men  without  controlling  influence  in  this  camp.' 

" But  I  have  a  presentiment  of  victory;  and  I  told  Barton  so. 
He  laughed,  and  looked  proudly  at  me,  and  said : 

"'Men  with  chestnut  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  sanguine  tempera- 
ment are  apt  to  have  hopeful  presentiments.' 

"  The  signs  of  a  movement  increase.  I  shall  write  again  as 
soon  as  it  is  over.  Aethue." 


418  Norwood;  or, 

On  the  21st  of  July  was  fought  the  battle  of  Bull  Eun,— a  most 
victorious  defeat.  It  ended  all  over-confidence  in  the  l:^orth.  It 
inspired  the  South  -with  such  vain-glorious  confidence  that  it 
failed,  for  a  year  or  more,  to  put  forth  that  power  which  it  had, 
and  then  it  was  too  late.  It  ended  all  lingering  ideas  of  peace.  It 
ended  all  further  notions  of  a  union  party  in  the  South ;  for,  after 
that  battle,  those  in  the  South  who  had  held  aloof,  hoping  a  peace- 
ful settlement,  were  swept  by  the  current,  and  obliged  to  accept 
the  new  government  as  existing  de  facto^  whatever  opinions  they 
yet  cherished  of  it  de  jure.  It  cast  the  most  profound  gloom  upon 
the  loyal  States — a  night  of  shame  and  sorrow.  But  out  of  that 
night  there  arose  a  morning  of  Purpose  such  as  had  not  dawned 
before !  There  was  to  be  a  long  and  thorough  war,  and  prepara- 
tion must  be  broad  and  thorough !  The  whole  after  fruit  of  this 
defeat  upon  the  North  was  bitter  to  the  palate,  but  wholesome  to 
the  people  and  salutary  to  the  Government. 

The  battle  had  begun  auspiciously  in  the  morning.  ]jIcDowell's 
right  wing,  crossing  Bull  Run  at  Sudley  Spring,  unperceived  and 
unresisted,  had  swept  down  upon  the  Confederate  left,  and  after 
various  conflicts  had  driven  them  step  by  step  back  across  Young's 
Branch,  across  the  "Warrenton  turnpike,  and  were  assailing  the 
centre  upon  the  heights  where  Beauregard  had  concentrated  his 
reserves  and  was  making  a  last  stand.  But  then,  between  three 
and  four  o'clock,  one  standing  at  a  little  distance  jnight  have  seen 
the  beginnings  of  one  of  the  most  terrible  spectacles  in  war — an 
army  in  a  panic !  For,  at  this  time  came  in  upon  the  Union  right 
and  rear  Johnston's  forces,  just  arrived  from  the  Shenandoah  Val- 
ley. "Wearied  by  long  conflict,  spent  with  heat,  famished  and 
parched,  the  raw  Northern  troops  gave  way,  as  the  leaves  of  a 
forest  scatter  when  October  winds,  on  wet  days,  drive  through  the 
forests.  At  every  moment  the  confusion  increased.  Men  already 
broken  up  in  organization  streamed  tumultuously  back  toward 
Bull  Run.  The  contagion  spread.  Fright  grew  wild. .  Men  rushed 
over  each  other,  across  all  obstacles,  stumbling,  leaping,  with  wild- 
est terror ;  muskets  were  thrown  away — knapsacks  had  long  ago 
been  cast  aside — and  thousands  were  madly  crowding  toward  the 
stone  bridge.  Others  sought  the  ford,  and  still  others,  waiting 
neither  for  bridge  or  ford,  splashed  into  the  stream  to  swim  across. 
In  vain  did  a  few  fragments,  cohering,  essay  to  stop  the  wild  flight. 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England.  419 

They  availed  nothing,  and  were  themselves  entangled  and  swept 
away.  A  handful  of  regulars  evinced  the  power  of  discipline,  and, 
without  attempting  the  hopeless  task  of  holding  back  the  rout, 
sought  only  to  check  pursuit  until  the  fugitives  could  cross  the 
stream.  Once  acfoss  Bull  Eun,  there  was  hope  of  some  safety. 
No ;  confusion  grew  to  a  more  desperate  uproar  as  the  tangled 
masses  receded  from  the  battle  field.  A  few  cannon  shot  thrown 
across  from  the  Confederate  batteries  had  fallen  among  the  wagons, 
and  the  whole  corps  of  teamsters  caught  the  mad  infection.  They 
turned  and  rushed  away,  many  abandoning  all  at  once.  Some  cut 
their  traces  and  rode  off  upon  the  team  horses.  Many  got  their 
wagons  about ;  but,  tangled  in  the  crowd  of  fugitives,  the  uproar 
growing  louder  and  the  flight  becoming  more  desperate,  wagon 
locked  with  wagon,  the  road  became  jammed ;  other  wagons  com- 
ing on,  upset  the  wagons  on  the  road-side,  but  only  to  clear  a  way 
for  a  repetition  of  like  scenes.  Crowds  of  citizens,  Members  of 
Congress,  women  and  children  had  come  out  as  to  a  festive  scene, 
and  were  caught  in  the  crowd,  and  went  roaring  on  in  the  des- 
perate struggle  of  fright. 

The  regiment  to  which  Barton  belonged  had  done  good  ser- 
vice, and  had  suffered  severely.  Many  of  his  own  company  had 
fallen.  But  his  men  were  conspicuous  for  steadiness.  By  two 
o'clock  the  colonel  and  lieutenant-colonel  had  been  wounded,  and 
the  command  devolved  upon  Major  Cathcart.  When  the  rout 
began,  he  was  able  to  hold  his  men,  and  with  incredible  efforts, 
to  form  a  sort  of  rearguard.  But  his  already  diminished  regiment 
melted  fast.  His  own  Norwood  company  were  firm.  But  they 
were  only  a  handful,  and  the  first  determined  onset  of  the  pursu- 
ing enemy  scattered  them..  Then  it  was  that  Barton,  untired, 
aroused  and  glowing,  sought  no  longer  how  to  stay  his  men,  but 
only  how  to  promote  their  escape.  In  all  the  battle,  he  had 
scarcely  lost  sight  of  Arthur  Wentworth,  and  now  he  was  convoy- 
ing him  as  best  he  might  toward  the  bridge.  Suddenly  from  his 
right  there  swept  around  a  detachment  of  Confederates  that  poured 
their  fire  upon  the  spot  where  Barton  stood,  and  with  loud  yells 
rushing  in  upon  them  separated  Barton  from  his  men,  and  swept 
him  away  a  prisoner. 

A  shot  struck  Arthur  in  the  neck.  He  plunged  forward. 
Sergeant  Belden,  and  two  others  of  his  townsmen,  caught  him 


420  Norwood ;  or, 

and  drew  him  aside,  and  by  singular  address,  after  exceeding  exer* 
tions,  conveyed  him  across  the  stream.  At  Centerville  Arthur 
was  phaced  in  an  ambulance,  and  lay  as  if  asleep.  Through  that 
sw^et  moonlight  his  few  men  trayelled  all  night — the  heavens  so 
pure  and  calm,  the  earth  so  noisy  and  ramp4ng — and  reached 
Washington  in  the  gray  of  the  morning.  Arthur  called  for  no 
water.  He  seemed  unconscious  of  pain.  He  ua8  unconscious,  and 
never  suffered  more  I  And  so,  as  a  bird  flies  up  out  of  a  storm- 
shaken  forest  and  seeks  more  peaceful  places,  his  spirit  had  lifted 
itself  higher  than  battle  and  above  its  stroke  or  sound ! 

Will  Belden  it  was  that  said,  "  Arthur,  do  you  suffer  much  ?  " 
and  hearing  no  answer,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  him  as  to  awake 
one  asleep. 

He  touched  his  face  and  drew  back  in  awe  and  silence ! 

No  blood  had  issued  from  his  wound,  near  the  base  of  the 
brain,  and  his  face  was  not  ghastly,  but  seemed,  in  the  early  twi- 
light, as  the  face  of  one  who  sleeps  and  dreams  pleasantly,  so  sweet 
was  the  expression  that  had  spread  over  it. 

That  day  the  telegraph  sped  the  tidings  to  I^Torwood.  The 
message-boy  handed  the  despatch  to  Agate,  saying,  as  he  delivered 
it — "  Arthur  is  dead." 

Agate  stood  motionless,  without  voice,  white  as  alabaster. 
Hearing  the  voices,  Mrs.  Wentworth  had  come  into  the  hall,  and 
in  an  eager  way  said : 

"  What  is  it.  Agate  ?    Speak !  " 

"  Arthur — is — dead  !  "  said  Agate,  slowly — solemnly — sternly. 

Mrs.  Wentworth  sat  down  upon  a  bench  and  looked  at  Agate 
imploringly,  as  if  she  had  suffered  wrong  at  her  hands,  and  could 
not  understand  why. 

"  Dead  ?— dead.  Agate?    Who's  dead?  " 

"  Arthur  Wentworth  is  dead !  " 

"Arthur — Wentworth — dead?  How  is  he  dead?  Tell  me, 
Agate, — what  do  you  mean ?  Why  did  he  die?  Dead?  dead? 
did  you  say  ?  " 

Agate  caught  her  falling,  fainting  form,  and  summoning  help, 
bore  her  to  her  room.  Then  Agate,  unshaken  as  if  her  heart  had 
no  pang,  with  a  head  as  clear  as  if  no  tidings  had  rolled  darkness 
over  the  family,  made  every  arrangement  for  the  household.  She 
ordered  for  the  children  what  their  daily  needs  required  ;  she  had 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  421 

made  every  arrangement  for  Dr.  Wentworth  to  go  to  Washington 
long  before  he  came  in  to  tea ;  she  ministered  to  the  darkened 
room ;  and  all  qnietly,  never  mistaking,  or  confusedly  giving  an 
order  twice,  but  in  the  stillness  of  severe  self-possession. 


CHAPTER  XLYI. 

CONSOLATIOX. 

It  was  the  morning  of  Sunday,  July  28,  1861.  Even  for  that 
month  the  morning  was  singularly  glorious.  The  wind  set  from 
the  north-west  when  it  breathed  at  all,  and  brought  the  fresh 
savor  of  thunder-storms  which  had  played  solemn  music  through 
the  night. 

The  air  was  cool.  Its  moisture  gave  to  the  light  a  peculiar  and 
palpitating  tenderness.  Old  Holyoke  looked  over  upon  Norwood 
with  unwonted  beauty,  and  the  jagged  peaks  that  rose  eastward, 
bathed  in  that  flame  which  never  consumes,  seemed  this  morning 
almost  human  in  their  sympathy.  So  thought  Dr.  "Wentworth, 
who  before  sunrise  walked  with  God  in  his  garden.  Look  fai 
around !  On  every  side  the  earth  glows  with  marvellous  beauty 
The  Lord  is  in  Ms  Holy  Temple^  he  said,  in  low  tones,  to  himself. 
He  could  not  well  add.  Let  all  the  Earth  Tceep  silence  ;  for,  out  of 
every  tree  and  bush,  from  the  orchard,  from  the  tops  of  the  elms, 
from  the  meadows  and  fields  there  went  up  such  an  ecstasy  of  bird 
songs  that  it  was  hardly  possible  to  distinguish  the  separate  songs,- 
each  bird,  as  it  were,  eagerly  casting  his  notes  into  a  medley  chorus 
of  sweet  sounds,  tangled  together  and  jarring  against  each  other  in 
a  pleasing  dissonance. 

Dr.  "Wentworth  was  intensely  calm.  It  was  the  calmness  of 
every  faculty,  keenly  alive  but  in  equipoise.  The  effort  of  self- 
restraint  had  imparted  a  slight  trace  of  sternness,  but  it  was  a 
mere  enamel  upon  tenderness.  He  walked  quietly  from  one  part 
to  another,  sometimes  looking  upon  flowers,  and  then,  while  he 
was  yet  looking,  he  would  fall  into  a  reverie.  He  stooped  and 
plucked  a  handful  of  leaves  and  blossoms,  saying,  in  a  half- whisper 
and  in  broken  sentences,  as  if  reciting  in  part,  and  thinking  the 
rest,  "He  cometh  forth  as  a  flower  and  is  cut  down:  hefleeth  also 
a  shadow  and  continueth  not ;  "  and  then,  pausing,  he  added 
aloud,  with  inexpressible  sadness,  "  The  eye  of  him  that  hath  seen 
him  shall  see  him  no  more.     As  the  cloud  is  consumed  and  van- 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  423 

ishetli  away,  so  he  that  goeth  down  to  the  grave  shall  come  up  no 
more,  neither  shall  his  place  know  him  any  more." 

He  laid  down  the  flowers  of  which  his  hand  was  over  full,  and 
forgetting  them  in  a  moment,  he  began  plucking  others,  murmur- 
ing, as  if  to  the  shrubs,  "  He  hath  set  darkness  in  my  path.  He 
hath  stripped  me  of  my  glory  and  taken  the  crown  from  my  head, 
and  my  hope  hath  he  removed  like  a  tree." 

He  laid  down  a  fresh  clump  of  gathered  flowers,  and  in  a  gen- 
tle, aimless  way,  straightened  out  some  of  the  spray  and  tangled 
vine  work,  as  if  he  were  putting  little  children  to  bed,  meanwhile, 
hardly  above  his  breath,  reciting: 

"  O,  the  hope  of  Israel,  the  Saviour  thereof  in  time  of  trouble, 
why  shouldst  thou  be  as  a  stranger  in  the  land  ?  Why  shouldst 
thou  be  as  a  man  astonished,  as  a  mighty  man  that  cannot  save? 
Yet  thou,  O  Lord,  art  in  the  midst  of  us,  and  we  are  called  by  thy 
name.     Leave  us  not !  " 

His  thoughts  had  reached  their  saddest  when  he  broke  forth 
into  that  most  utterly  hopeless  of  all  utterances  of  old :  "  Are  not 
my  days  few  ?  cease  then,  and  let  me  alone,  that  I  may  take  com- 
fort a  little  before  I  go  whence  I  shall  not  return,  to  the  land  of 
darkness  and  the  shadow  of  death ;  a  land  of  darkness,  as  dark- 
ness itself,  and  of  the  shadow  of  death,  without  any  order,  and 
where  the  light  is  as  darkness !  "  From  the  gloom  of  these  words 
his  soul  after  a  little  seemed  to  rebound,  and  clear  itself,  and  his 
thoughts  forsook  the  inexpressible  sadness  of  the  olden  day,  of 
which  the  Old  Testament  is  so  full  and  wailing-,  and,  without  uttering 
them,  he  repeated  in  his  mind  that  passage  in  Hebrews  that  is  like 
a  sunrise:  "  But  ye  are  come  unto  Mount  Zion  and  unto  the  city 
of  the  living  God,  the  heavenly  Jerusalem,  and  to  an  innumerable 
company  of  angels," — and  the  rest. 

He  walked  on,  seemingly  forgetful  of  his  flowers,  and  look- 
ing forth  and  upward  upon  the  wide  arch  above  full  of  morn- 
ing sunlight,  he  leaned  against  the  summer-house  door,  long 
looking  up : 

"  Therefore  they  are  before  the  throne  of  God  and  serve  him 
day  and  night  in  his  templciand  He  that  sitteth  on  the  throne  shall 
dwell  among  them.  They  shall  hunger  no  more,  neither  thirst  any 
more,  neither  shall  the  sun  light  upon  them,  nor  any  heat.  For 
the  Lamb  which  is  in  the  midst  of  the  throne  shall  feed  them,  and 
19 


424  Norwood;  or, 

lead  tliem  unto  living  fountains  of  waters ;  and  God  shall  wipe 
away  all  tears  from  their  eyes." 

As  lie  stood  half  chanting  in  a  low  voice  these  words,  Eose 
approached  him,  but  stood  silent.  After  a  little,  she  quietly  moved 
past  her  father  and  came  into  the  summer-house  from  the  other 
side.  The  sight  of  Eose  seemed  to  open  in  her  father's  soul  a 
flood  of  tender  memories.  He  trembled,  and  all  at  once  giving 
over  restraint,  "he  lifted  up  his  voice  and  wept."  There  is  some- 
thing terrible  in  the  uncontrolled  weeping  of  a  strong  man !  Rose 
was  appalled.  She  had  never  seen  her  father  weep — she  had 
never  seen  him  lose  his  self-possession. 

When  he  first  learned  the  fatal  tidings  of  Arthur's  death,  he 
only  said  :  "  T  gave  him  to  the  Lord,  and  He  has  taken  him." 

All  the  way  to  "Washington,  and  during  the  night  and  day  of 
his  ride  homeward,  convoying  the  beautiful  sleeper,  he  had,  though 
silent  and  deeply  thoughtful,  shed  no  tears.  But  this  tension  could 
not  last.  He  was  again  at  home.  The  Sabbath  had  come.  The 
boy  was  lying  in  the  house,  his  sword  wreathed  in  green  oak 
leaves  upon  his  coffin.  The  singular  charm  of  the  morning,  the 
train  of  thought  in  which  his  mind  had  run,  all  had  led  him  to 
that  point  where  it  needed  but  some  touch  to  bring  tears.  So  a 
shrub,  gathering  dew  through  the  night,  carries  all  its  leaves 
edged  with  drops,  losing  none,  until  some  gentle  wind  shakes  it, 
and  then  all  at  once  rains  down  a  shower  from  every  branch. 

It  was  while  her  father  was  gone  to  Washington  that  Rose 
had  tasted  the  dregs  of  the  cup  of  grief.  But,  after  a  night  of 
suffering  and  conflict,  she  came  forth  strengthened,  and  from  that 
moment  she  walked  as  one  who  sees  the  Invisible,  in  the  presence 
of  whom  all  the  earth  is  as  a  shadow,  and  its  noises  as  sUence, 
and  its  sorrows,  like  the  sighs  of  childhood,  soon  hushed  in  sleep 
and  forgetfulness !  She  had  formed  her  purposes,  and  from  that 
hour  without  a  moment's  wavering  she  devoted  her  whole  soul  to 
her  new  calling. 

She  waited  calmly  by  her  father,  tears  freely  falling  down  her 
cheeks,  but  only  in  sympathy.  The  tumult  and  paroxysm  of  his 
grief  soon  passed,  and  her  father,  relieved  by  this  long-needed  out- 
burst, came  after  a  little  to  a  peace  not  to  be  disturbed.  Father 
and  daughter  communed  together  of  the  dead.  He  spoke  of  his 
hopes,  his  ambition,  his  joy  and  affection  for  his  oldest-born  son. 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England.  425 

"  If  he  could  have  been  spared  to  render  something  more  of 
service  to  the  cause,  I  could  have  more  willingly  yielded  him. 
But  to  be  cut  off  so  early,  his  powers  not  put  to  proof,  with  so 

little  fruit  ripened,  and  in  the  hour  of  defeat " 

"Father,"  said  Rose,  "there  is  other  work  to  be  done  in  this 
great  hour  of  God's  coming  besides  that  which  is  done  in  the  field. 
It  has  been  shown  me  that  thousands  are  to  mourn ;  the  fii-st-born 
of  many  families  are  to  be  slain.  Only  sons  are  to  be  taken  away. 
Every  household  in  this  land  is  to  be  pierced.  God  is  beginning 
at  his  own  house  and  among  those  he  loves.  It  is  fit  that  you 
who  have  stood  foremost  in  this  community  should  lead,  and  in 
this  great  day  of  sufl['ering  set  the  example  of  sacrifice  and  conse- 
cration. What  is  there  worth  living  for,  and  even  more  worth 
dying  for,  if  it  be  not  our  own  country  ?  " 

"My  daughter,  you  speak  eagerly,  -  enthusiastically.  You  are 
excited  by  what  you  have  passed  through." 

"  I  was  excited  ;  but,  father,  I  am  calm  now,  and  I  shall  be  to 

the  end " 

Then  hesitating,  as  if  uncertain  whether  to  go  on,  she  said,  at 
length : 

"Father,  while  you  were  gone  after  Arthur,  and  mother  wa3 
overwhelmed  in  such  distress,  and  my  own  heart  seemed  giving 
way,  I  thought  that  I  could  not  bear  up  and  sustain  myself.  For 
two  days,  the  darkness  was  dreadful.  At  length,  I  could  struggle 
no  more.  I  had  slept  none  for  two  nights.  Mother  was  sleeping 
by  means  of  opiates.  I  went  to  my  room.  My  thoughts  turned  to 
the  Saviour.  His  sufferings  for  men  seemed  to  rise  to  my  mind. 
I  implored  His  help.  I  read  the  scenes  in  Bethany,  where  Lazarus 
was  sick ;  while  the  Saviour,  though  knowing  it,  delayed  to  come ; 
and  the  sisters'  anguish  at  their  brother's  death  !  When  I  came  to 
their  reproach,  'Lord,  if  Thou  hadst  been  here,  my  brother  had  not 
died ! '  I  felt  as  if  I  were  myself  speaking.  Then  there  came  to  me 
a  sense  of  the  tenderness  of  Jesus  toward  them,  of  His  deep  sorrow 
and  sympathy  with  them,  such  as  I  had  not  before  ever  perceived. 
In  this  mood  I  was  struck  with  His  declaration,  that  all  this  suffer- 
ing was  permitted  for  the  sake  of  spiritual  good,  which  they  did 
not  understand,  nor  He  explain.  In  some  way,  that  very  not  ex- 
plaining seemed  to  convey  to  my  mind  a  sense  of  the  wonderful 
nature  of  spiritual  life,  which  lay  so  far  above  human  experience 


426  Noricood ;  or, 

or  language,  that  the  Saviour  made  no  effort  whatever  to  expound 
it.     My  heart  yielded.    I  rested  on  Christ  as  a  little  child." 

Eose  paused  for  a  moment  and  then  resumed : 

"  Father,  what  I  am  going  to  say  you  will  understand  better 
than  I.  I  do  not  pretend  that  it  was  real.  But  it  produced  an 
impression  upon  my  soul  which  has  not  changed.  ISJ'or  do  I  desire 
to  shake  it  off." 

"  What  was  it,  Eose  ?    Tell  me  all. 

"I  lay  down  upon  the  bed,  and  was  asleep.  How  long  I  had 
been  asleep  I  cannot  tell.  I  heard  Arthur  calling  to  me,  '  Eose ! 
Eose ! '  I  opened  my  eyes — Arthur  was  there,  though  I  saw 
nothing  of  him  but,  as  it  were,  the  print  of  his  face  in  the  air.  As  I 
looked,  the  room  disappeared,  and  I  seemed  to  be  in  the  air.  Be- 
fore me  I  saw  unfolded  in  the  sky  lurid  clouds  connected  and  rising 
in  a  procession,  one  above  another,  and  each  cloud  was  made  up 
of  battling  men,  and  of  a  mixed  multitude  of  wounded  and  dying, 
and  each  successive  cloud  advancing,  grew  larger  than  the  other. 
I  saw  flashes  of  lightning  run  through  them,  but  heard  no  sound, 
though  I  listened." 

Eose  paused  again,  and  looked  at  her  father.  Had  she  seen  the 
slightest  smile  of  incredulity,  she  would  have  said  no  more;  but 
Dr.  TTentworth  was  deeply  intent. 

"3Iy  daughter,  go  on.  If  there  is  more,  let  me  hear  the 
whole." 

"I  saw  myself,  and  you,  and  others.  We  moved  up  and  down, 
relieving  the  wounded  and  suffering.  Thus  far  I  had  not  noticed 
any  tiling  but  these  lurid  clouds,  which  formed,  as  it  were,  steps 
one  above  the  other.  But  presently  I  was  moved  to  look  beyond, 
and  I  saw  what  was  to  the  cloud  what  the  second  rainbow  is  to 
the  primary.  It  was  an  answering  picture,  or,  as  it  seemed  to  my 
thought,  a  spiritual  translation  of  the  meaning  of  the  cloud  scene. 
I  cannot  describe  it.  There  was  rest,  and  friendliness,  and  peace, 
and  gladness,  and  purity,  and  joy, — ^how  shall  I  say  ? — there  were 
no  figures  to  my  senses,  and  yet  my  spirit  discerned  these  repre- 
sentations as  clearly  as  my  senses  did  the  other.  As  I  looked, 
Ai-thur  came  again,  and  all  around  us  there  seemed  to  be  an  inef- 
fable peace,  and  his  love  seemed  to  fill  the  air  all  about  us  with 
rosy  light,  as  if  it  had  been  a  radiancy  of  some  burning  lamp.  I 
pras  inexpressibly  hapijy,  and  Arthur  was  about  to  tell  me  some- 


Village  Life  i?i  New  England.  427 

thing,  saying,  in  a  significant  way,  '  Eose !  Rose ! ' when  Agate 

stood  by  my  bedside,  and  the  morning  was  advanced,  and  my  vision 
was  all  gone.  Now,  I  know  what  you  will  say,  father,  and  I  do 
not  doubt  that  I  dreamed ;  but  what  I  think  remarkable  is,  that 
my  whole  feeling  is  changed.  I  have  not  had  a  ripple  of  trouble 
since.  There  is  to  be  great  trouble  in  the  land — battles  and  multi- 
tudes of  slain  and  wounded.  I  am  to  devote  myself  to  this 
service,  and  care  for  the  sick  and  wounded.  I  am  no  longer  agi- 
tated. 1  know  what  that  peace  is  which  passes  all  under- 
standing." 

They  were  here  summoned  to  breakfast,  and  all  the  family 
seemed  to  have  felt  that  morning  that  the  Sabbath  sun  had  arisen 
upon  them  with  healing  in  its  wings. 

"  Shall  I  wind  the  clock  to-day? "  asked  Agate  Bissell  of  the 
doctor. 

"  ITo,  Agate,  not  to-day.  Both  ceased  to  keep  time  together. 
Let  them  stand  silent  for  another  day." 

It  seems  that  for  the  first  and  only  time  in  her  life,  on  that 
Sabbath  day  on  which  the  battle  of  Bull  Eun  was  fought,  the  great 
black  clock  in  the  hall  had  been  forgotten,  and  had  run  down. 
Agate,  whose  last  duty  on  Saturday  night  before  going  to  bed  was 
to  wind  up  the  clock,  had  for  some  unaccountable  reason  neglected 
it.  The  clock,  however,  had  a  little  time  stored  up  in  it  for  such 
occasions,  and  kept  on  through  the  night.  It  was  still  at  its  duty 
in  the  morning  of  Sunday,  for  Agate  remembered  looking  at  it  and 
hurrying  lip  the  children  for  Sunday-school.  It  was  some  time 
after  noon  that  its  courage  began  to  fail.  The  ticks  had  lost  their 
plump  sound  and  grew  faint.  The  right  hand  swing  could  hardly 
be  heard,  though  the  left  hand  was  yet  decisive.  Th^n  it  missed  the 
right  hand  tick  altogether,  and  then  the  left ;  and  then  in  silent 
vibration  the  pendulum,  with  diminishing  arc,  swung  on  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  halted.  On  returning  from  afternoon  service  it  was  dis- 
covered.    But  the  doctor  said : 

"Do  not  wind  it.     To-morrow  we  will  have  it  examined." 

Afterward  Agate  superstitiously  believed  that  it  stopped  with 
the  speeding  of  that  ball  which  struck  Arthur.  And  Doctor  Went- 
worth  would  not,  on  this  ftineral  day,  allow  it  to  be  set  agoing. 

"Let  it  be  for  to-day.  They  ceased  to  keep  time  together. 
Let  both  be  silent  together. 


428  Norwood. 

TTitli  this  day  ended  all  struggle.  It  was  the  day  of  life  from  the 
dead.  It  was  the  Lord's  day, — pledge  of  resurrection  and  immor- 
tality. Bent  down  and  ohscured  by  the  physical  shock  and  aspects 
of  death,  father  and  mother  had  at  first  spoken  of  their  child  as" 
dead,  as  early  lost.  But  now  came  brighter  and  brighter  every 
hour  the  certainty  of  his  living.  Their  thoughts  went  upward, 
along  that  very  path  by  which  the  ascending  Saviour  moved ;  and 
their  faith  sought  the  child  among  the  ever  living  and  the  forever 
joyful,  where  sorrow  and  sighing  has  passed  away  ! 

And  when  the  day  was  ended,  and  the  thousands  who  had 
thronged  Norwood  to  follow  this  young  martyr  to  the  grave  had 
dispersed,  and  the  sun  was  gone  down,  and  twilight  softened  the 
landscape,  no  one  unaccustomed  to  Christian  faith  could  have  be- 
lieved that  the  happy  household  which  gathered  that  night,  calm, 
tender,  cheerful,  had  that  day  parted  from  the  form  of  one  so  loved 
as  was  this  early  victim  of  war. 

"  Tlien  the  same  day  at  evening^  leing  the  first  day  of  the  izeeTcy 
when  the  doors  were  shut,  *  *  cayne  Jesu^  and  stood  in  the  midst  and 
saith  unto  them,  Peace  be  unto  you^ 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

AFTEK-FKUrrS. 

Had  an  entire  stranger  entered  Dr.  T7ent worth's  family  he 
would  scarcely  have  suspected  that  a  great  sorrow  had  befallen  it. 
He  might  remark  a  tenderness  manifested  by  one  toward  another, 
unusual  even  in  the  circle  of  affectionate  people.     The  voice  of 
singing  was  there,  but  the  music  flowed  deep,  carrying  few  bub- 
bles upon  its  surface.    Even  mirth  re-asserted  its  wholesome  sway, 
but  it  was  manifested  more  by  the  dewy  freshness  given  to  con- 
versation than  by  a  positive  efflorescence  of  its  own.    In  this 
case,  happily,  sorrow  worked  upon  the  moral  sentiments  and  de- 
veloped a  serene  and  high  joy !     There  was  no  drug  in  it  deaden- 
ing to  the  sensibility.    All  of  life  had  become  richer  by  what  it 
had  lost.     The  heavens  seemed  nearer.     The  lightest  duties  and 
most  trivial  offices  of  daily  life  seemed  colored  with  celestial  hues. 
When  Death  is  interpreted  it  means  Life.     Its  ministry  is  to 
enrich  life,  not  to  rob  it.    It  takes  away  the  flesh,  but  pours  back 
along  the  way  upon  which  the  departing  spirit  went  a  flood  of 
light  and  influence  which  heightens  the  colors  and  doubles  the 
value  of  all  that  remains  behind.     The  worth  of  common  things 
depends  upon  the  sentiments  which  we  have  twined  around  them. 
Sorrows  are  gardeners;  they  plant  flowers  along  waste  places,  and 
teach  vines  to  cover  barren  heaps.     The  common  duties  of  life, 
unblessed,  are  but  as  fences  of  stone,  or  timber;  but  blessed  with 
sorrow,  each  stake  carries  its  twining  morning-glory,  and  mosses 
picture  the  stones,  and  glowing  ampelopsis  tufts  the  walls  with  its 

autumnal  red. 

Rose  and  her  mother  were  conferring  in  whispers. 

"  Ask  him,"  said  Mrs.  Wentworth. 

"Father,  what  is  your  feeling  about— about— our  going  into 

mourning?" 

A  grave  smile  barely  tinged  the  doctor's  face  as  he  rephed, 
scarcely  lifting  his  face  from  the  book  which  he  read : 

"  It  is  proper,  my  daughter,  that  we  should  mourn  when  we 
are  afflicted." 


430  Norwood ;  or^ 

"  Father ! — you  know  I  did  not  mean  that.  Shall  we  put  on 
the  customary  mourning  clothes  ? " 

"If  it  is  indispensable  to  your  comfort.  Do  not  do  it  to  please 
me — unless  you  follow  the  Scriptural  example." 

"  What  example  is  there,  father?  "  said  Rose. 

"  Read  in  the  twentieth  chapter  of  John,"  replied  the  doctor, 
"■  and  about  the  middle  of  the  chapter ; — let  me  see — there  it  is — 
the  eleventh  and  twelfth.'* 

Rose  read  -aloud — "But  Mary  stood  without  at  the  sepulchre 
weeping :  and  as  she  wept  she  stooped  down  and  looked  into  the 
sepulchre " 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  her  father,  "  that  is  too  often  our  way  in 
grief — we  '  stoop  down '  and  we  '  look  into  the  sepulchre.'  Except 
by  a  miracle,  they  that  look  into  the  grave  for  their  dead  will  find 
darkness,  and  gloom,  and  decay.  But  I  interrupted  you — the  part 
that  I  meant  is  yet  to  come." 

Rose  resumed — "  And  saw  two  angels  in  white  sitting,  the  one 
at  the  head,  and  the  other  at  the  feet,  where  the  body  of  Jesus 
had  lain " 

"Old  Francia,  before  Raphael's  day,"  said  Dr.  "Wentworth, 
"  in  a  noble  Pieta,  which  is  now  in  the  iTational  Gallery  in  Lon- 
don, represents  an  angel  at  the  head  of  Christ,  with  the  expres- 
sion of  hope^  as  one  who  was  looking  forward  into  the  future, 
while  the  other  angel  at  the  feet  wears  the  sorrowful  look  of  one 
who  rememlers  the  past.  The  idea  is  very  beautiful.  Since  I  first 
saw  it  I  have  always  interpreted  this  passage  in  John's  gospel  in 
the  same  way.  Two  angels,  Hope  and  Memory,  but  both  in  shin- 
ing white,  sat  in  Christ's  sepulchre.  The  angel  of  sorrow  wore 
white  as  much  as  his  fellow.  Demonic  sorrow  should  wear  black ; 
but  Christian  faith  shows  us  angels  yet  hovering  at  the  grave's 
mouth.  Our  Arthur  is  not  sleeping  there.  He  is  awake,  and  in 
Heaven.  Why  should  I  wear  black  for  him?  His  life  was 
Christian  and  beautiful.  He  died  as  a  pure  offering  to  Duty  and 
Patriotism — why  should  I  wear  black  ?  I  thank  God  for  giving 
me  that  child.  His  life  was  a  prolonged  mercy  to  me.  I  thank 
God  that  he  has  so  taken  him  from  me  that  he  is  more  present 
than  ever,  present  in  every  thing,  and  everywhere,  pure,  sainted, 
most  beautiful. — Why  should  I  put  on  black  ? " 

"I  think,"   said  Mrs.  Wentworth,  "that  one  is  shielded  by 


Village  Life  in  New  En  gland.  431 

mourning  costume  from  careless  inquiries,  and  from  unfeeling  ia- 
trusion  of  people." 

"Ko  doubt,"  said  her  husband,  "in  a  few  instances  this  may 
be  true.  But  the  advantage  at  best  is  slight.  Well-meaning 
blunderers  are  not  to  be  cured  so  easily." 

"  But  I  think,  my  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Wentworth,  "  that  it  is 
congenial  to  one's  feelings,  in  a  great  sorrow,  to  avoid  bright 
colors,  and  to  be  clothed  in  darker  ones." 

"  That  is  a  matter  of  education.  In  so  far  as  high  colors  have 
come  to  signify  gayety  and  pleasure,  there  may  be  a  good  reason 
for  dismissing  them.  If  one  would  mark  one's  grief,  why  not  by 
the  color  chosen  by  the  Bible  to  express  spiritual  things?  White 
signifies  purity,  triumph,  spiritual  gladness,  and  this  ought  not  to 
be  uncongenial  to  the  moods  of  Christian  grief." 

"  And  yet,  in  the  public  mind,"  said  his  daughter,  *'  there  is  a 
seeming  want  of  respect  to  the  memory  of  the  departed,  if  we 
make  no  difference  in  our  ways."^ 

"  It  is  not  the  custom  of  our  people  to  symbolize  their  feelings 
by  a  change  of  dress,  with  this  solitary  exception.  If  a  man  be- 
comes bankrupt,  or  has  his  house  burned  down,  or  loses  heavily  in 
commercial  operations,  or  has  a  son  in  disgrace,  or  a  child  misled 
by  evil  company,  or  any  other  experience  of  grief,  he  does  not 
change  his  garb.  The  one  solitary  and  exceptional  case  is  be- 
reavement !  But  there  is  in  domestic  sorrow  a  delicacy,  or  ought 
to  be,  which  should  shrink  from  an  ostentatiousness  such  as 
mourning  apparel  cannot  fail  to  have.  !N'o  one  has  a  right  so  to 
express  his  sorrows  as  to  intrude  them  upon  every  eye  wherever 
he  goes.  Custom  has  long  justified  it;  otherwise,  it  would  be 
esteemed  an  indelicacy  for  one  to  be  a  walking  advertisement  of 
one's  own  private  griefs.  But,  even  if  one  were  permitted  to 
announce  this  one  side  of  domestic  experience  by  change  of  garb, 
the  question  still  remains,  whether  expression  should  be  given  to 
the  weakness  of  natural  feeling,  or  the  triumph  of  Christian  faith  ? 
Whether  we  should  symbolize  the  darkness  of  the  grave  as  un- 
enlightened nature  shows  it,  or  the  grave  made  luminous  by  the 
triumph  of  our  Saviour  and  the  glories  of  immortality  beyond  it  ? 
We  may  be  sure  there  is  something  wrong,  in  a  Christian  com- 
munity where  death  is  surrounded  with  associations  of  terror, 
where  the  young  are  reared  to  a  horror  of  the  sepulchre,  where 
19* 


432  Norwood ;  or, 

present  grief  rises  up  like  a  dark  cloud  and  shuts  out  tlie  heaven, 
"svhere — in  sermon,  services,  conversation,  and  dress — every  thing 
conspires  to  shroud  death  and  the  grave  with  darknes^.  Has  sor- 
row a  right  to  be  selfish  ?  May  it  bear  false  witness  against  im- 
mortality ?  Has  a  Christian  under  bereavement  a  right  to  declare 
by  his  conduct,  '  There  is  no  light  in  the  grave,  none  beyond  it, 
and  no  comfort  for  the  bereaved  but  only  black,  black,  black  sor- 
row ! '  I  never  met  one  muffled  in  black  from  head  to  foot,  without 
a  certain  horror.  The  smell  of  crape  is  to  me  like  the  smell  of  a 
charnel-house ! 

^  "Did  it  ever  occur  to  mourners  to  ask,  what,  if  those  for  whom 
I  grieve  were  to  speak  to  me  out  of  their  blissful  rest  in  heaven, 
would  be  their  choice — that  I  should  be  shrouded  like  one  in 
despair,  or  robed  as  one  who  mourns,  but  with  Christian  hope  ? " 

iTothing  further  was  replied,  and  the  subject  dropped. 

A  great  change  had  taken  place  in  Rose.  At  length  she  had 
an  object  in  life,  which  was  of  sufficient  magnitude  and  interest 
to  develop  and  occupy  all  her  powers.  Hitherto  her  life  had  been 
bright,  tranquil,  and  happy.  Yet,  at  times,  there  had  crept  upon 
her  a  deep  sense  of  dissatisfaction  with  herself.  'What  was  she 
accomplishing?  To  wait  in  elegant  idleness  for  some  domestic 
settlement,  violated  both  her  moral  sense  and  her  delicacy.  And 
yet,  what  was  she  doing  commensurate  with  the  powers  which  had 
been  entrusted  to  her  and  the  culture  which  they  had  received  ? 

She  had  revolved  in  her  mind  many  projects  without  settling 
upon  any.  At  one  time  she  was  seriously  bent  upon  leaving  home 
and  seeking  a  place  in  the  South  or  "West  as  a  teacher,  and  desisted 
from  the  purpose  only  on  seeing  how  much  pain  it  would  give  her 
parents.  She  also  revolved  plans  of  teaching  at  or  near  home, 
but  found  that  she  could  do  it  only  by  dispossessing  others  who 
depended  upon  teaching  for  their  bread.  Sometimes  she  thought 
of  art  as  a  field  of  usefulness,  but  was  convinced  that  in  no  other 
department  of  life  was  usefulness  so  dependent  upon  the  very 
highest  talents  as  in  the  ministry  of  the  beautiful. 

But  the  war,  which  was  now  disclosed,  opened  a  field  for 
every  power  which  she  possessed.  Her  brother's  early  fall  seemed 
to  be  a  call  to  her  to  enlist  in  the  same  cause,  and  make  his  place 
good.  And  though,  at  first,  she  did  not  see  the  particular  way  in 
which  she  could  enter  this  field  of  humanity,  yet  she  never  for  a 


Village  Life  in  New  Eiigland.  433 

moment  doubted  that  she  was  called  of  God,  and  that  He  would, 
in  His  own  time  and  manner,  open  her  path  before  her. 

With  her  mother  she  did  not  speak  of  her  intentions.  To  her 
father  she  disclosed  her  wishes,  and  when  his  natural  shrinking 
from  the  thought  of  the  toil  and  exposure  were  overcome,  he  began 
to  aid  Rose  in  her  preparation.  He  placed  in  her  hands  works  or 
parts  of  works  that  would  give  her  such  general  knowledge  of 
physiology  and  of  therapeutics  as  would  furnish  a  proper  basis  for 
right  nursing.  In  conversations,  he  gave  her  also  much  informa- 
tion upon  gunshot  wounds,  surgery,  and  particularly  on  military 
surgery.  He  enlarged  upon  hospital  treatment — air,  cleanliness, 
and  the  medicinal  effect  of  cheerfulness  and  moral  sentiments. 
Eose's  industry  was  most  unremitting.  Her  power  of  acquisition, 
always  remarkable,  was  stimulated  to  the  highest  degree.  She 
soon  conceived  a  love  of  the  study  for  its  intrinsic  interest,  and 
brought  to  the  study  of  medicine  an  enthusiasm,  an  apprehensive- 
ness,  a  tact  and  delicacy  which  few  medical  students  possess. 

]S'ot  content  with  books,  she  insisted  upon  riding  with  her 
father,  at  least  enough  to  wear  off  that  shrinking  from  suffering  so 
natural  to  a  sensitive  nature. 

"  Eemember,  Rose,''  her  father  would  say,  "that  you  are  to  be 
a  nurse,  not  a  surgeon.  For  the  active  practice  of  medicine,  or 
the  performance  of  surgery,  you  know  enough  to  be  only  a  good 
charlatan !  But  with  modesty  and  your  good  sense,  you  know 
enough  to  aid  you  materially  in  nursing." 

During  the  summer,  Norwood,  in  common  with  every  town 
and  village  in  the  Xorth,  was  filled  with  zeal,  both  in  raising  the 
-quota  required  of  Massachusetts  by  the  call  for  a  half-million  of 
men,  and  in  providing  for  the  soldiers'  comfort  in  the  camp  and 
for  necessaries  for  sickness  and  wounds.  Old  linen  came  to  a  good 
market !  Bandages  of  all  widths,  and  in  endless  quantities,  were 
provided.  Lint  was  scraped  in  every  house.  Sick  dresses, 
drawers,  shirts  and  stockings,  held  high  jubilee,  and  found  them- 
selves in  great  honor.  Sewing  circles  in  every  church  !  sewing 
circles  in  almost  every  other  house  !  sewing  circles  on  every  day 
of  the  week,  except  Sunday ;  and  even  then,  there  was  unre- 
buked  talk  about  sewing  circles ! 

About  the  middle  of  this  summer  was  organized  the  most  mag- 
nificent voluntary  charity  ever  recorded.     Experience  had  fcund, 


434  Norwood ;  or, 

in  every  nation,  that  the  Medical  Department  of  the  army, 
however  thoroughly  organized  and  faithfully  served,  had,  by 
virtue  of  its  connection  vfith  the  machinery  of  the  army,  a  cer- 
tain formality  and  precision  which  was  inconsistent  "with  elasticity 
and  suppleness.  It  was  a  wheel  in  a  complicated  machine,  and 
its  revolutions  must  be  determined  by  its  relations  to  its  fellow 
wheels. 

The  Sa^titary  Commissiox  undertook  not  to  supersede,  but  to 
supplement  and  assist,  the  Medical  Department  of  the  army.  Its 
career  is  as  notable  as  any  single  feature  of  the  war.  In  no  other 
nation  has  the  compassion  of  the  people  for  their  soldiers  resulted 
in  so  wonderful  an  organization,  which,  by  voluntary  contributions 
from  citizens,  disbursed  during  four  years,  of  money  and  material, 
between  twenty  and  thirty  millions  of  dollars ! 

It  was  October  before  Rose  let  her  mother  know  of  her  inten- 
tions. She  had  prepared  herself  to  meet  any  objection,  and  ad- 
duce any  persuasion  necessary  to  overcome  maternal  reluctance, 
inspired  by  love.  To  her  sur]3rise,  the  announcement  of  her  pur- 
pose was  received  with  prompt  favor,  and  a  vehement  opposition 
was  raised  in  an  unexpected  quarter. 

"  Rose,"  said  her  mother,  "  I  am  glad  you  are  going.  You  are 
the  very-one  to  go.    I  wish  I  could  go  too." 

"  "Well,"  said  Agate  Bissell,  with  a  look  of  unfeigned  amaze- 
ment, "  I  have  heard  a  good  deal  about  the  singularities  of  the 
Wentworths,  but  this  beats  them  aU.  I  wonder  what  will  come 
next ! " 

*'Why,  Agate?  What  is  there  so  remarkable  or  eccentric  in  a 
woman's  going  to  hospitals  to  nurse  wounded  soldiers  ? " 

"Of  course  women  ought  to  go,"  said  Agate.  "But  I  don't 
think  it  the  place  for  young  and  pretty  girls !  I  guess  you've  little 
idea  of  what  soldiers  are,  or  what  camp  life  is !  " 

"But  somebody  must  go,"  said  Rose,  smiling  at  Agate's  ear- 
nestness. 

"  To  be  sure  there  must.  But  homely  folks  aren't  all  dead  yet, 
nor  old  folks,  nor  middle-aged  folks.  "When  all  these  are  used  up 
it  will  be  time  to  try  the  young  and  handsome  ones !  " 

"Really,  Agate,"  said  Rose,  very  much  amused.  "I  never 
knew  you  so  complimentary  before.  I  think  I  shall  have  to  go, 
even  if  I  wear  a  veil  to  save  the  young  soldiers'  hearts  while  I  dresa 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  435 

their  wounds.    It  would  be  sad  indeed  to  make  worse  wounds  than 
one  cures !  " 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  Miss  Eose,  that  you  are  going?— or  only 
that  you  are  thinking  about  it? " 

"As  sure  as  my  life  is  spared,  Agate,  I  shall  go,  and  that  before 
many  days." 

"  Then,  as  sure  as  my  life  is  spared,  you  won't  go  alone!  " 

"  What,  Agate,"  said  Mrs.  Wentworth,  "you  don't  mean  to  go 
yourself?" 

"  I  do  mean  to  go  myself!  If  Eose  will  venture  on  so  rash  a 
business,  it's  high  time  for  somebody  to  go  along  and  take  care  of 
her." 

"Without  more  ado.  Agate  turned  and  went  to  her  room,  selected 
the  few  things  which  she  needed,  finished  all  her  packing  within 
an  hour,  except  a  few  articles  yet  to  be  made,  and  came  down  to 
see  to  the  tea,  as  if  she  had  merely  been  getting  ready  to  go  to  the 
prayer-meeting.  She  said  nothing  further  on  the  subject  of  the 
conversation,  except  to  Eose: 

"  I  am  all  ready.    You  can  start  when  you  please." 

It  was  Wednesday  on  which  this  scene  occurred.  The  next 
Monday  was  fixed  as  the  day  for  departure.  Agate,  though  ready, 
night  or  day,  to  leave,  was  yet  glad  of  the  respite,  chiefly  because 
on  the  next  afternoon  she  would  have  one  more  opportunity  of 
attending  the  female  prayer-meeting. 

Let  us  look  in  on  the  meeting. 

In  a  small  room,  about  three  in  the  afternoon,  were  gathered 
nine  women,  every  one  of  them  mothers,  except  Agate  Bissell. 

Polly  Marble  was  there,  with  her  great  spectacles  mounted  up 
on  her  withered  face,  as  if  the  sun  had  used  them  as  lenses  and 
dried  every  particle  of  moisture  out  of  the  features  behind  them. 
One  or  two  others  were  melancholy  and  silent  women,  plain  farm- 
ers' or  mechanics'  wives,  who  had  evidently  struggled  much  with 
sorrow.  Miss  Pifkins  was  there — a  sharp  saint,  who  ferreted  out 
people's  sins  with  a  zeal  and  assiduity  which  rendered  her  grace 
most  savory.  In  action  she  was  really  kind.  Her  hand  was  boun- 
tiful. In  sickness  she  knew  no  limit  to  service,  i^o  one  in  trouble 
had  ever  a  better  friend.  It  was  her  tongue  that  played  the  part 
of  Law,  while  her  heart  acted  the  Gospel.  Her  prayers  were  often 
but  salutary  lectures.     When  any  wickedness  had  disturbed  the 


436  Norivood ;  or, 

town  slie  was  apt  to  have  great  liberty  in  prayer  at  tlie  next  meet- 
ing. '•  There  is  no  use  in  mincing  matters.  Sin  is  exceedingly  sin- 
fal,  and  we  may  as  well  out  with  it,  as  to  smother  it  all  up  with 
excuses  and  mercy  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

Good  Mrs.  Taft  was  there,  as  sweet  as  twilight  in  June.  So 
was  Mrs.  Goodhue,  who  never  failed  to  go  to  sleep.  She  was  round, 
rosy,  good-natured.  There  was  a  smile  spread  out  under  her  very 
skin,  which  nothing  could  rub  out.  Trouble  had  tried  it,  but  failed. 
Stern  religious  views  had  tried  it,  but  her  round,  rosy  face  smUed 
on.  Age  now  was  trying  it ;  but  though  it  could  dry  up  the  hair, 
change  its  color,  convex  the  eye-ball  and  disturb  its  functions,  it 
did  not  get  on  with  the  face.  That  shone  and  smiled  at  fifty  very 
much  as  it  did  at  twenty-five. 

Mrs.  Goodhue  came  unfailingly  to  prayer-meeting— I  could 
never  tell  why ;  for,  as  soon  as  the  preliminary  talking  was  over 
and  business  began,  she  dropped  asleep.  She  waked  easily — waked 
to  kneel  down,  and  waked  to  rise  up  again.  She  was  always  asked 
to  pray,  and  always  said,  in  a  sweet  voice,  "  Xo,  I  thank  you." 
So  much  for  externals.     There  is  another  side. 

A  mother  is  praying.  Before  her  is  opened  the  other  world 
and  the  listening  Saviour.  She  is  praying  for  children,  meaning 
her  own.  Her  heart  is  deep.  Her  love  is  the  whole  treasure  of 
her  life.  She  believes  her  children  in  danger  of  eternal  ruin.  She 
is  imploring  succor.  Listen,  as  her  voice,  low  and  tremulous,  rises 
with  the  intensity  of  feeling,  and  grows  musical.  Listen!  as  her 
emotions  swell,  how  sentences  dissolve  in  passionate  feeling,  tears 
fall,  and  sobs  are  uttered,  and  low  sighs  on  every  side  attest  the 
sympathy.  Eespect  such  a  scene !  Eespect  is  a  poor  and  barren 
word  for  such  fervor  of  faith  and  fidelity  of  love. 

And  now  Agate  prays.  She  has  imparted  to  her  friends  her 
impending  journey  and  errand.  Her  heart  is  full.  There  is  not  a 
word  for  herself.  She  prays  for  the  country,  for  the  church  and 
for  the  cause  of  God.  She  prays  for  the  afflicted  family  in  which 
she  lives ;  for  the  one  who  is  going  to  minister  to  the  sick.and  dying ; 
and  all  her  petition  is  that  Eose  may  be  wise  in  directing  dying 
sinners  to  the  Lamb  of  God  that  taketh  away  the  sins  of  the  world. 
As  she  proceeds,  all  formality  of  tone  is  gone.  At  last  Agate  is 
free,  when  she  can,  without  let  or  hindrance,  pour  forth  that  silent 
soul  in  full  utterance  before  God.    Her  words  rise  in  power  and 


Villa(je  Life  in  New  England.  437 

dignity.  She  falls  into  the  language  of  the  Old  Testament.  She 
seems  greater  than  woman — some  prophetess  returned  to  our  days 
— with  wealth  of  affection  and  chastened  familiarity!  She  pours 
out  her  innermost  feelings  before  her  Redeemer ;  and  so  real  is  it, 
that,  standing,  as  I  do,  and  listening,  I  half  expect  to  see  the  clouds 
part  and  the  celestial  vision  appear.  Ah !  when  women's  hearts 
are  unfolded  in  the  presence  of  their  God,  he  must  be  base-minded 
indeed  who  remembers  their  pinched  faces,  their  angular  forms, 
their  ungraceful  ways,  while  their  kindled  souls  are  giving  utter- 
ance to  the  very  passionateness  of  love  and  worship !  Few  places 
on  earth  are  so  near  to  heaven  as  where  Christian  wives  and 
mothers  pray  for  their  families. 

"When  Agate  returned  home  there  was  nothing  unusual  in  her 
look  or  manner.  It  was  no  unusual  feeling  she  had  experienced. 
The  hidden  life  was  mightier  and  nobler  in  Agate  than  the  re- 
vealed one.  Her  faith  was  not  only  a  tabernacle  of  joy  in  times  of 
sorrow,  but  a  pavilion  where  she  was  hidden  till  the  storm  was 
overpast. 

There  were  two  surprises  in  reserve  for  Eose  before  she  left. 
Alice  Cathcart  came  on  Saturday  night,  as  she  often  did,  to  pass 
the  Sabbath  day  in  town,  and  on  this  night  she  was  radiant  with 
joy.  Barton  had  been  exchanged,  and  was  now  in  Washington 
with  his  regiment.  He  expected,  however,  to  be  at  home  the  next 
week  to  take  the  colonelcy  of  one  of  the  new  regiments.  Frank 
Esel  was  to  be  his  lieutenant-colonel ! 

"  Then  you  have  had  letters?  "  said  Rose. 

"  Yes.  Do  you  know  that,  until  he  reached  Washington,  he 
knew  nothing  of  Arthur's  death  ?  His  letter  is  very  full  of  Arthur. 
He  loved  him,  he  says,  more  than  if  he  were  a  brother.  How 
strange  it  seems,  when  you  have  had  a  great  sorrow,  and  months 
have  passed,  until  you  begin  to  grow  used  to  it,  to  see  it  break  upon 
some  one,  as  this  news  did  on  Barton,  as  if  it  had  just, happened, 
and  all  the  freshness  and  particularity  of  your  sorrow  comes  back 
to  you  in  an  echo  from  another  heart !  " 

While  they  thus  sat  in  the  open  door,  talking  of  the  loved  'and 
absent,  and  both  of  them  thinking,  down  deeply  in  the  silence  of 
the  heart,  of  other  things,  which  their  lips  would  not  reveal,  a 
robin  flew  into  one  of  the  trees  in  the  meadow,  and  began  singing 
that  plaintive  call  for  its  mate  which  one  hears  so  often  in  sum- 


438  Norwood ;  or, 

mer.  It  is  the  robin's  sweetest  and  most  spirited  song,  and  few 
strains  there  are  that  surpass  it  in  tenderness,  clearness  and  bril- 
liancy. Rose  had  always  associated  this  evening  robin-song  with 
the  idea  of  a  love-call  to  one  absent.  To-night  it  seemed  more 
yearning  and  passionate  than  usual.  She  followed  the  bird  with 
her  eye.  At  first  he  sat  patiently  and  sang.  Then,  as  if  surprised 
that  no  response  followed,  it  gave  new  force  to  its  call.  Now, 
growing  restless,  it  changed  place,  singing  in  turn  from  several 
trees,  and  jerking  itself  nervously,  as  if  really  alarmed  at  last  lest 
it  were  forsaken.  It  seemed  to  Rose  to  say,  "  The  night  is  coming 
on.  Where  is  my  love  ?  Oh!  is  he  harmed?  Am  I  forsaken?" 
It  grew  dark  rapidly ;  the  song  ceased ;  the  bird  flew  silently  away 
as  if  there  was  nothing  left  to  sing  for.  There  was  silence  in  the 
air  and  among  the  trees.  Rose  too  became  silent  and  thoughtful. 
At  length  she  said,  abruptly  : 

"  Colonel  Cathcart !  Who  would  have  dreamed  in  the  old  happy 
days,  when  we  were  all  children,  and  he  was  so  shy  and  yet  so  bold, 
that  we  should  grow  to  this  ? — he  in  the  army,  and  I  in  the  army 
hospitals !  T  did  not  see  him,  Alice,  before  he  left.  You  will  meet 
him  next  week,  but  I  shall  be  in  Washington.  This  is  playing  at 
cross-purposes." 

Alice  had  something  else  to  tell ;  but,  as  if  there  was  a  pleasure 
in  keeping  it  back,  she  waited  till  the  evening  was  spent,  and  they 
were  preparing  for  gleep,  when  she  said,  looking  at  Rose  earnestly, 
and  yet  mirthfully,  with  her  great  black  eyes : 

"  Rose,  won't  you  tell  any  body  if  I  will  teU  you  something?  " 

"  Of  course  not,  if  it  is  a  secret." 

"  Well,  I  too  am  going  with  you  and  Agate.  Father  has  con- 
sented ;  mother  always  wanted  me  to  go.  But  I  am  to  wait  till 
next  Spring.  Then,  if  the  war  is  not  over,  father  says  I  may  go 
out  in  the  service  of  the  Sanitary  Commission  and  join  you.  And 
Hiram  Beers  says  he's  too  old  to  go  a  soldiering,  but  that  if  Agate 
can  find  out  that  he  can  do  any  thing  to  help  in  the  hospitals,  he'll 
wind  up  this  Winter  and  come  out  in  the  Spring  with  me." 

Joined  as  their  lives  had  ever  been,  it  was  a  joy  to  Rose  that 
they  were  to  be  inseparable  still ;  and  though  some  months  were 
to  elapse  before  Alice  would  come  to  her,  yet  by  that  time  Rose 
would  have  become  used  to  the  work,  and  could  smooth  the  way 
for  Alice. 


Village  Life  in  New  En(jland,  439 

The  seed  sown  by  Florence  Kightingale  brought  forth  a  plentiful 
harvest  ia  America.  Wherever  hospitals  were  established  were 
found  women  of  energy  and  devotion  who  gave  their  time  to  min- 
istrations of  mercy.  They  came  from  every  position  in  society, 
yet  to  the  honor  of  true  culture  be  it  said,  that  women  from  circles 
of  wealth  and  refinement  led  in  this  merciful  crusade. 

Mrs.  Wentworth,  with  maternal  anxiety,  would  have  over- 
loaded our  pilgrims  with  preparatives.  Agate  Bissell,  however, 
refused  all  help. 

"  "Why,  Mi-s.  "Wentworth,  we  are  not  going  where  fine  clothes 
will  do  us  any  good.  Few  things  and  strong,  are  all  we  want. 
"When  they  are  used  up  we'll  send  for  more." 

"  She  is  right,"  said  Dr.  Wentworth.  "  A  life  among  field  hos- 
pitals is  as  near  a  total  revolution  of  ordinary  experience  as  can  be 
conceived.  It  will  be  a  spectacle  of  Christian  refinement  going 
down  to  the  very  border  of  savage  life  on  an  errand  of  love.  Xow, 
Eose,  you  are  walking  in  His  very  footstep?,  '  who,  though  rich, 
for  our  sakes  became  poor,  that  we  through  his  poverty  might  be- 
come rich.'  Great  joy  is  before  you  if  you  go  in  that  spirit.  But 
it  is  a  joy  unknown  to  common  life, — the  very  joy  of  self-sacrific- 
ing Benevolence. — But  what  is  Agate  building  up  with  her  needle, 
Eose?" 

"  Well,  father,  it  may  be  called  a  Paradise  of  Pockets ;  other- 
wise, nursing  aprons." 

"You  may  laugh  now,"  said  Agate,  very  composedly,  "but 
when  we  go  into  the  field,  and  follow  the  march,  with  men  every 
other  step  faint  or  wounded,  you  will  find  these  aprons  better  than 
lugging  a  carpet-bag." 

There  were  pockets  on  the  sides  and  pockets  on  the  front,  pock- 
ets low  down  and  pockets  high  up,  pockets  for  thread  and  needles, 
pockets  for  buttons,  tape,  and  small  things,  pockets  for  small  rolls 
of  bandages  and  lint — pockets  for  knives,  scissors,  and  comb  and 
brushes,  a  pocket  for  vials  and  one  for  a  good  brandy  flask. 

The  cloak  may  be  described  as  a  congeries  of  small  bags  so  ar- 
ranged that  the  wearer,  if  strong  enough  to  stand  up  under  the 
load,  could  carry  in  it  a  reasonable  supply  of  comforts  and  restor- 
atives for  a  small  household. 

Although  the  doctor  made  merry  over  Agate's  contrivances, 
he  admired  her  sagacity  in  foreseeing  the  nature  of  her  work. 


440  Norwood ;  or^ 

"  It  is  not  every  one  who  lias  served  in  a  campaign  that  is  as 
well  instructed  as  Agate  seems  to  be  before  she  has  seen  a  single 
wounded  man." 

"Anybody  that  ever  did  any  nursing,"  said  Agate,  "  can  imag- 
ine pretty  much  what  they've  got  to  do.  In  the  hospitals  I  expect 
we  shall  have  every  thing  provided.  But  in  the  fields  I  guess  we 
shall  have  to  provide  for  ourselves — at  any  rate  a  good  part  of  the 
time.  It's  better  to  have  these  things  and  not  want  them,  than  to 
want  them  when  you  get  there  and  not  have  them." 

Dr.  Buell,  on  the  last  Sunday  before  the  little  party  started, 
bore  them  in  memory,  and  the  fervor  and  tenderness  with  which 
he  prayed  for  all  who  went  forth  to  succor  the  needy,  manifestly 
showed  that  his  thoughts  were  with  Agate  and  Eose.  Indeed, 
though  not  his  custom,  he  spent  the  Sabbath  evening  with  the 
Wentworths.  Although  they  were  to  leave  on  Monday,  there  was 
nothing  to  tempt  Agate  to  the  least  work  on  Sunday.  She  was 
twice  at  church,  and  with  her  Sunday-school  class  as  well  prepared 
as  if  thei:e  had  been  no  unusual  outfit  going  on,  and  by  ten  o'clock 
on  Saturday  night  the  last  stitch  had  been  fastened,  the  last  string 
tied,  every  thing  was  packed  and  laid  ready  for  early  departure  on 
Monday. 

"  Why,  Agate,"  said  Mrs.  "Wentworth,  "  you  will  work  on  Sun- 
days, will  you  not,  when  you  are  in  the  field  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  shall.  Works  of  necessity  and  of  mercy  are  proper 
on  Sunday.  When  folks  live  at  home  and  have  the  whole  week  to 
themselves  there  need  not  be  many  such  works  left  for  Sunday — 
not  if  they  have  any  conscience  abont  it.  But  I  think  nowadays  folks 
make  Sunday  a  kind  of  rubbish-day.  They  save  up  all  the  little 
odds  and  ends,  through  the  week,  that  won't  pay,  and  then  on  Sun- 
day call  'em  works  of  necessity  and  mercy.  I  call  'em  works  of 
laziness.  Any  body  that  wants  to  keep  Sunday  to  the  Lord,  will 
keep  an  eye  to  it  all  the  week.  My  opinion  is,  that  the  reason  why 
folks  don't  like  Sunday  is,  that  they  don't  know  what  it  is  to  have 
a  day  full  of  real  peace,  up  to  the  brim,  from  morning  to  night, 
and  sweet  as  milk." 

"  She'll  do,"  said  Dr.  Wentworth  to  his  wife,  in  an  undertone, 
and  in  an  amused  way.  "Before  Agate  gets  back  she  will  have 
learned  something  about  the  world ;  but  I'm  mistaken  if  other  peo- 
ple don't  learn  something  about  a  real  plain  IN'ew  England  woman ! 


Village  Life  in  New  Englaiid.  441 

It's  a  pity  that  some  man  had  not  the  good  sense  to  win  so  much 
sense  and  goodness." 

*' Perhaps,"  said  Mrs.  "Wentworth,  with  a  slight  cast  of  her  eye 
at  the  other  side  of  the  room,  "  some  other  people  are  of  youi 
mind." 

"What?  "  said  the  doctor,  "you  don't  mean " 

"  1  don't  mean — but  I  think  Dr.  Buell  does." 

"Wliy  icill  people  pry  into  other  people's  business?  There  sat 
Dr.  Buell  properly  enough,  neither  saying  soft  things  to  Agate  nor 
exchanging  glances.  All  that  he  had  ever  done  was  to  consult 
Agate,  within  the  last  six  months,  respecting  the  religious  interests 
of  tlie  parish ;  and  any  minister  might  have  done  that  with  profit. 
Her  judgment  was  worth  any  wise  man's  consideration.  Dr.  Buell 
was  grateful  for  it,  and  expressed  his  sense  of  thanks  by  the  cordi- 
ality with  which  he  shook  Agate's  hand ;  and  if  it  lingered  in  his, 
it  was  because  the  good  man  was  growing  absent-minded. 

"When  Mrs.  "Wentworth  had  slyly  hinted  to  Agate  that  Dr.  Buell 
would  lack  for  counsel  when  she  was  gone.  Agate's  manner  showed 
that  there  was  no  foundation  whatever  for  Mrs.  "Wentworth's  sly 
humor.  Her  cheek  flushed  slightly,  and  her  eye,  with  resentful 
good  nature,  flashed  a  little,  but  did  not  turn  away ;  she  looked  the 
doctor's  wife  full  in  the  face,  while  she  said  : 

"  I  know  what  you  mean.  It's  no  such  thing.  The  doctor  has 
never  said  a  word  to  me  that  any  body  might  not  hear,  and  he's 
no  ideas  about  it  anyhow." 

"  About  what,  Agate  ? "  said  Mrs.  Wentworth,  in  the  most  inno- 
cent manner,  "  ideas  about  what  ?  " 

Agate  walked  out  of  the  room  with  some  emphasis  in  her  move- 
ment ;  yet  her  principles  enabled  her  to  keep  good-natured. 

On  Monday  they  left  for  Washington,  to  enter  upon  their  new 
and  strange  duties. 


CHAPTER    XLYUL 

A   NEW  LIFE. 

It  was  indeed  a  new  life  to  Rose  more  than  to  Agate ;  fof 
Rose's  life  had  dealt  less  with  business  and  more  with  sentiment, 
while  Agate's  had  heen  trained  to  practical  affairs.  There  was 
a  hospital  in  Washington  which  had  suffered  from  the  incompe- 
tence both  of  nurses  and  surgeons.  After  a  few  weeks  the  medical 
director  of  the  Department  was  glad  to  place  Agate  Bissell  there 
as  superintendent  and  matron,  while  Rose  became  her  assistant. 

Agate's  entrance  upon  her  duties  was  the  signal  of  alarm 
among  a  multitude  of  unworthy  attendants.  It  can  be  likened  to 
nothing  better  than  the  entrance  of  a  conscientious  cat  into  a 
house  where  rats  and  mice  have  had  unmolested  libertr.  There 
was  racing  and  scampering,  hiding  and  peeping  out  of  holes,  alarm 
and  cunning  ;  but,  one  bj  one,  each  culprit  was  sm-prised  and  de- 
spatched, to  the  great  comfort  and  stillness  of  the  household. 

Hospital  stores  were  no  longer  squandered  nor  consumed  by 
nurses  and  attendants.  Wines  and  brandies  now  found  their  way 
oftener  to  the  wounded  than  to  those  who  waited  on  them.  The 
special  diet  suddenly  improved  in  quality,  in  regularity,  and  in  a 
certain  feminine  neatness  and  refinement. 

"I  say,  Jim,  there's  a  new  hand  at  the  bellows  in  this  shop — 
we  never  had  things  afore  like  this !  " 

"  That's  so ;  the  old  'un  is  a  cap'n.  I  tell  ye  she  drills  'em,  she 
does.  When  she  fust  came  and  I  heerd  her  dressin'  down  some 
of  the  nusses,  I  thought  we'd  got  a  tartar.  Lord  bless  her,  though, 
when  she  comes  to  the  sick  'uns — you'd  think  she's  ten  mothers 
rolled  into  one  !  " 

"  This  is  the  first  time,"  weakly  sighed  a  mere  skeleton  of  a 
man,  on  the  next  couch,  "  that  any  thing  has  tasted  good  since  I 
got  here." 

Agate's  zeal  of  neatness  had  the  eagerness  of  the  hunting 
instinct.  She  brought  every  thing  to  order.  She  established  a 
method  for  all  things,  and  compelled  its  observance,  or  dismissed 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  443 

the  refractory.  She  stood  very  little  upon  ceremony.  She  ex- 
pressed her  opinion  upon  persons  just  as  unhesitatingly  as  upon . 
things.  Every  day  her  heart  yearned  more  and  more  for  "  her 
hoys,"  as  she  called  the  patients.  In  a  month's  time  a  perfect 
revolution  had  taken  place.  The  hospital,  which  was  the  very 
worst,  had  risen  to  become  a  model.  She  did'  not  confine  her 
labors  to  her  subordinates.  She  had  lived  too  long  with  Dr. 
"Wentworth  not  to  know  what  conscientious  medical  practice  was. 
She  rebuked  the  assistant  surgeons  when  they  neglected  their 
proper  duties,  and  became  such  a  thorn  in  their  sides  that  they 
determined  to  oust  her.  She  helped  on  that  purpose.  One  morn- 
ing she  found  out  that,  though  it  was  eleven  o'clock,  no  special 
diet  list  had  been  made  out  for  one  of  the  wards,  the  assistant  sur- 
geon in  charge  having  been  on  a  " spree"  the  night  before.  He 
Avas  sleeping  off  his  drunkenness.  When  at  length  he  came, 
Agate  confronted  him  with  an  eye  that  did  not  seem  pleasant  for 
him  to  look  upon.  TVith  a  few  cold  but  terrible  sentences,  she 
brought  the  blood  to  his  cheeks. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  surgeon,  with  ill  concealed  annoyance, 
"  what's  the  matter  now  ? "  "" 

"Matter  enough,  as  you  shall  soon  find  out.  All  these  sick 
men  left  without  attention  or  food,  that  you  might  indulge  a  brutal 
appetite !  And  then  do  you  dare,  sir,  attempt  to  face  me  down 
with  your  impudence  ?  You'd  better  pull  off  those  shoulder-straps 
and  resign."  « 

"This  a  great  fuss  over  a  little  matter,"  said  the  surgeon,  who 
was  more  alarmed  than  he  was  willing  to  show.  "I  know  my 
own  business,  and  I  shan't  tolerate  your  meddling." 

"I  know  my  business,  too,"  replied  Agate,  fiercely,  "and  you 
shall  find  it  out.  I'll  pull  off  that  shoulder-strap  before  you're  a 
week  older." 

When  he  was  gone,  some  of  the  attendants  were  greatly  alarmed, 
dreading  his  influence  with  his  superiors. 

"  Oh,  ma'am,  he'll  have  it  jest  his  own  way.  He'll  get  up  a 
report,  and  them's  above  him  will  think  it  all  right,  and  first  thing 
we  know,  you'll  be  sent  off  to  some  other  work.  I've  seen  how 
things  go  here." 

"Don't  you  be  troubled,"  said  Agate,  quietly,  and  went  on 
with  her  work. 


444  Norwood ;  or. 

Sure  enough,  within  a  ■week  came  a  new  matron  with  an  order 
superseding  Agate  Bissell.  As  the  woman  seemed  to  be  both 
sensible  and  kind! j,  Agate  said : 

"  I  wish  yon  would  withhold  this  matter  till  afternoon." 
"  Certainly,  madam,  if  it  will  make  a  difference  with  you." 
"  It  may  make  a  good  deal — with  some  other  folks." 
Agate  immediately  gave  things  in  charge  to  Rose',  put  on  her 
bonnet  and  shawl,  and  started  for  the  "White  House.    She  had 
never  been  used  to  riding  in  hacks ;  and,  although  the  distance  was 
great  and  the  walking  very  bad,  she  bravely  sped  her  way  to  the 
President's  mansix)n. 

The  waiting-man  at  the  door  looked  at  her  very  much  as  a 
dog  looks  at  a  stranger,  to  see  whether  it  is  worth  his  while  to 
bark  or  not.     The   inspection,  however,  seemed  favorable.     He 
pointed  to  the  stairs  and  said : 
"  Go  up." 

ITot  knowing  whither.  Agate  obeyed  and  went  up.  Landing  in 
a  wide  hall,  a  folding  door  stood  open,  in  which  she  saw  some 
fifteen  or  twenty  people  waiting.  A  door-keeper  stood  at  the 
first  door  on  the  right  as  she  entered,  receiving  cards,  which  he 
carried  into  the  President's  reception-room,  and  then,  from  time 
to  time,  as  parties  came  out,  he  called  to  one  and  another  to  enter. 
Agate  approached  him  and  said : 
"  Is  the  President  in  ? " 

"Yes,  ma'am.    Let  me  have  your  card,  if  you  please." 
*'  Tell  him  that  Agate  Bissell  wants  to  see  him." 
"  Let  me  write  your  name.     Perhaps  you'll  do  it  yourself,  on 
this  card!  " 

"Within  half  an  hour  she  was  admitted.  The  room  was  large, 
and  furnished  scarcely  better  than  a  country  lawyer's  oflSce.  A 
large  open  fire-place  was  on  the  right  side  of  the  room  as  she 
entered.  On  the  left  hand  wall  hung  many  maps.  One  also  there 
was  over  the  mantelpiece,  apparently  just  drawn  in  ink,  and  giving 
the  country  between  the  Potomac  and  Eichmond.  A  large,  long 
table  covered  with  green  baize  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
and  beyond  it,  near  to  the  windows  on  the  side  opposite  the  door, 
was  a  similar  table  at  which  sat  a  loi;g,  lean,  grandfatherish  man. 
He  was  running  his  left  hand  through  stiff  and  long  black  hair, 
now  beginning  to  be  struck  through  with  gray.      His  features 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  445 

were  large,  and  seemed,  like  cliance  travellers  at  an  inn,  to  have 
put  up  together  for  a  night,  rather  than  to  have  been  a  family  of 
relations. 

"  "Well,  ma'm,  "  said  he,  in  a  broad  country  accent,  his  voice 
somewhat  drawling  and  shrill,  "  this  is  Agate  Bissell,  I  s'pose. 
What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  You  can  do  nothing  for  we,"  said  Agate  Bissell,  firmly,  but 
with  great  respect ;  for  she  had  a  profound  N'ew  England  reverence 
for  a  chief  magistrate  of  the  nation,  queer  as  she  thought  the  spec- 
imen now  before  her — "  you  can  do  nothing  for  me,  but  you  can 
do  a  good  deal  for  the  soldiers." 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

Agate  briefly  narrated  her  experience,  to  which  the  President 
listened  gravely,  and  she  ended  by  saying : 

"  I  wish,  Mr.  President,  that  you  would  ask  the  chief  medical 
director  here,  to  look  into  this  matter  with  his  own  eyes,  and  not 
to  take  his  opinion  from  drunken  underlings,  who,  while  soldiers 
shot  down  in  battle  are  lingering  and  dying  before  him,  is  lying 
beastly  drunk,  and  then  would  turn  out  of  charge  those  who  re- 
buke him.  Oh!  Mr.  Presideut;  how  can  any  body  doubt  the  doc- 
trine of  total  depravity  when  they  see  the  wretches  robbing 
wounded  soldiers,  eating  the  delicacies  sent  to  them,  and  drinking 
their  cordials,  and  letting  their  wounds  stink  and  rot,  from  care- 
lessness?   Ifs  enough  to  touch  a  stone's  heart." 

Mr.  Lincoln's  heart  was  no  stone. 

"Madam,  I  will  give  you  a  note  to  the  doctor,  and  do  you  go 
and  talk  to  him  jest  as  you  have  to  me." 

He  sat  down  and  took  an  unglazed  visiting  card,  and  wrote 
with  a  pencil : 

'•  Dr. .    Please  hear  this  woman's  statement,  and  make 

inquiry  in  person,  and  if  it  is  true,  put  her  back,  and  pray  for 
twenty  more  such  women.  A.  Lincoln"." 

"  There — do  you  go  yourself.  If  any  thing  turns  up,  and  it 
don't  go  right,  you  come  to  me  again.  Let  me  see.  Agate  Bis- 
sell— Agate  Bissell — yes,  Pll  remember  your  name  and  some  time 
I'll  come  down  and  see  how  you're  getting  along." 

Armed  with  this.  Agate  soon  found  the  medical  director.  It 
required  but  little  time  to  satisfy  him.    She  was  reinstated,  the 


446  Norwood;  or, 

assistant  snrgeon  was  dismissed  the  service,  and  great  fear  fell  npon 
all  who  had  to  do  with  Agate ! 

That  evening  Rose  said — "  What  kind  of  a  man  did  you  find 
the  President  to  he  ?  " 

"A  very  good  man^''''  said  Agate — "but  I  didn't  see  much  Pres- 
ident about  him.  But  I  s'pose  he  had  not  got  his  official  clothes 
on,  and  so  he  did  not  rumple  up  his  feathers  much." 

'^Vhile  Agate  played  the  General,  Eose,  in  her  own  way,  was 
quite  as  efficient.  She  had,  what  many  noble  fellows  in  this  labor 
of  love  had  not,  ample  command  of  money.  She  sought  to  cheer 
the  sick  and  wounded,  by  relieving  the  barren  wards  of  their  cold 
and  forlorn  appearance.  She  procured  cheerful  engravings,  suited 
to  the  tastes  of  the  men,  and  hung  them  where  they  could  easily 
see  them.  She  went  daily  to  the  green-houses  for  flowers,  and  dis- 
tributed them  through  the  wards.  "  It  does  not  require  masses  of 
flowers,"  she  would  say.  "A  single  bud  with  a  leaf,  by  a  cot,  is 
is  often  far  more  prized  than  a  large  bouquet  would  be."  In  this 
way,  the  convalescents  had  each  some  token,  and  many  of  the  men 
begged  leave  to  send  home  these  oflferings  to  their  mothers  or 
sisters. 

Rose  showed  great  skill  in  conversation  with  the  men,  and  im- 
parted to  them  much  religious  truth.  He  must  have  been  a  hard- 
ened man  indeed  who  could  not  listen  to  her  sweet  voice,  reading 
in  low  tones  by  his  bedside  the  psalms  of  David,  or  the  Evan- 
gelists. 

"Why,  Tom,"  said  a  wounded  man  to  an  Irish  soldier,  who  lay 
next  him,  "  I  thought  you  was  a  Catholic  ?  How  dare  you  let  a 
heretic  read  the  Bible  to  you  ? " 

"  She's  no  hiritic,  I  tell  ye.  D'  ye  think  they  make  hiritics  of 
such  as  thim  ?  Ye  couldn't  keep  her  out  of  hiven,  more'n  you  can 
keep  the  birds  out  of  the  gardens.  If  you  druv  'em  away  iver  so 
many  times,  they'll  fly  back  agin,  sure !  " 

The  experience  gained  in  Washington  was  such  that  when,  in 
the  spring  and  summer  of  1862,  McClellan  made  his  iil-fated  cam- 
paign of  the  Peninsula,  Agate,  Rose,  and  Alice,  who  had  joined 
them,  followed  the  army,  and  served  in  the  brigade  and  regimental 
hospitals.  During  battles,  they  hovered  upon  the  edge  of  the  con- 
flict, preparing  food  for  the  wounded,  aiding  in  binding  up  their 
wounds,  furnishing  them  with  stimulants,  and  comforting  the  dying. 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England.  447 

Now  it  was  that  Rose  found  her  whole  soul  drawn  forth.  Every 
power  was  taxed.  She  rose  to  the  necessities  of  the  hour  in  a 
manner  which  made  her  the  admiration  of  all.  Perhaps  she  could 
not  surpass  Agate  in  the  methodical  administration  of  business,  in 
the  routine  of  wards  in  hospital,  although  she  equalled  her,  and 
grew  every  day  in  strength  and  endurance.  But  she  surpassed 
Agate  in  medical  sense.  She  had  evidently  inherited  her  father's 
medical  tact  and  insight ;  and,  though  she  avoided  taking  the  sur- 
geons' work  out  of  their  hands,  her  quickness  and  aptitude  were  of 
continual  service  even  to  medical  men. 

But  far  more  than  these  things  was  Eose  noticed  for  her  courage 
and  her  power  of  inspiring  men  with  hope,  and  cheer,  and  r-ourage. 
Her  resources  of  thought,  her  wealth  of  feeling,  her  great  power  of 
expression,  her  imagination  and  humor  seemed  endless.  Indeed 
Alice  "wrote  truly  when  she  said  to  her  parents  that  Rose  had 
broken  forth  into  a  new  life.  All  those  resources  which  lay  un- 
taxed in  her  former  quiet  life,  were  now  developed  into  an  even 
and  steady  enthusiasm.  Her  pity  and  tenderness  made  her  pres- 
ence to  the  sick  and  wounded  like  a  light  shining  upon  them  from 
then*  own  home.  In  different  places,  she  earned  for  herself  among 
the  soldiers  pet  names.  They  played  upon  her  name  and  styled 
her  the  "Ever-blooming  Rose."  And  when  she  brought  coffee, 
or  fragrant  tea,  made  as  no  one  else  knew  how  to  suit  it  to  their 
taste,  they  naturally  called  her  the  "  Tea-Rose."  In  other  camps 
she  was  known  as  the  "Norwood  Beauty," — and  she  uas  beauti- 
ful !  The  constant  play  of  courage,  pity,  benevolence,  and  the  en- 
thusiasm of  patriotism  had  given  to  her  face  a  radiant  outlook 
peculiarly  charming. 

She  accompanied  the  troops  and  returned  with  them  from  the 
Peninsula.  She  returned  to  "Washington  to  care  for  the  multitudes 
of  wounded  that  came  in  from  Pope's  disastrous  campaign.  She 
went  with  the  wagons  of  the  Commission  to  Antietam,  and  hov- 
ered along  that  field  wherever  were  wounded  and  suffering.  It 
was  here  that  she  was  inspired  by  danger  and  desperate  necessity 
to  take  the  surgeon's  knife. 

In  a  small  house,  so  near  to  the  battle  that  shot  were  flying 

around  it  in  every  direction,  were  collected  multitudes  of  the 

wounded.     The  surgeon  was  in  the  act  of  amputating  a  shattered 

leg.     Rose  stood  near,  his  only  assistant.     The  saw  had  half-sev- 

20 


448  Norwood ;  or, 

ered  the  bone,  •when  a  cannon-shot  struck  him  dead.  The  patient 
was  left  bleeding.  Seized  with  an  inspiration,  Eose,  without  an 
instant's  hesitation,  put  her  hand  to  the  saw,  completed  the  sever- 
ing, tied  the  arteries,  joined  the  flaps,  and  bound  up  the  wound. 
The  man  recovered.  She  had  often  been  called  the  "  Surgeon's 
Daughter;"  but  now  the  men  changed  it,  and  called  her  the 
"  Daughter-surgeon." 

Alice  was  never  separated  from  Rose.  They  worked  together, 
rode  and  travelled  together,  slept  together.  Scarcely  less  than 
Eose  was  Alice  admired  and  beloved  by  the  common  soldiers.  She 
often  sang  to  them  in  the  hospitals,  wrote  their  letters  home,  re- 
ceived dying  messages  and  faithfully  transmitted  them  to  friends 
at  home. 

The  heroism  of  the  war  received  its  highest  illustration  in  that 
band  of  noble  women  who  followed  the  flag  through  darkness  and 
blood,  toiling  as  no  soldiers  on  the  march  toiled,  enduring  hard- 
ships which  none  surpassed,  facing  all  the  dangers  of  the  battle- 
field, and  many  others  in  hospitals  even  more  perilous  than  bullet 
or  shell,  and  in  many  instances  offering  their  lives  as  a  sacrifice  to 
humanity  and  religion!  The  evangelists  of  a  true  gospel  were 
they,  sowing  the  good  seeds  of  peace  in  the  furrows  of  war ! 

Alice  Cathcart  was  not  less  patriotic  in  her  feelings  than  Eose. 
But  for  some  reason,  she  added  to  these  generous  impulses  a 
peculiar  pity  and  tenderness  toward  the  sick  and  wounded  rebel 
prisoners.  This  disposition  drew  forth  from  Hiram  Beers  many 
criticisms  and  discussions. 

"  I  think  you  might  use  your  time  better'n  to  be  curiu'  up  the 
fellows  that  fought  us,  so's  to  fight  agin." 

"Why,  Hiram,"  said  Alice,  imploringly,  "they  are  not  our 
enemies  now  that  they  are  sick  and  helpless.  The  poor  and  sick 
the  world  over  should  be  like  their  own  children  to  the  well  and 
the  merciful." 

"You  may  have  'em,  if  you  want.  But  you  won't  catch  me 
adoptin'  sech  a  scaly  set  o'  children.  I'll  tell  ye,  you're  fattenin' 
'em  up  agin  to  shoot  down  our  boys.  It's  like  geese  and  chickens 
goin'  round  to  cure  up  all  the  sick  foxes." 

"  Would  you  let  them  suffer,  Hiram  ?  would  you  see  them  die 
without  a  crumb  from  our  stores  ?  "  said  Alice,  in  a  plaintive  way. 

"  Wal,  mebbe  Td  give  'em  the  crumbs,  but  I  wouldn't  give  'em 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  449 

a  slice  round  the  whole  loaf.  The  fact  is,  you  give  'em  cakes  and 
gingerbread,  and  that's  running  kindness  into  the  ground,  I'm 
thinkin',"  said  Hiram. 

Agate  Bissell  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  Hiram  Beers,  you  old  hypocrite,  what  do  you  want  to  tease 
that  child  for?  You  know  you  don't  believe  a  word  you're  say- 
ing. I  should  like  to  know  who  'twas  that  ran  about  last  week 
for  clothes  and  stockings  for  the  shivering  prisoners ;  and  who 
'twas  that  looked  after  those  two  boys  in  ward  ten,  when  we  were 
in  the  hospital?  You  know  you're  just  plaguing  Alice.  Alice, 
don't  mind  a  word  he  says.  His  tongue  is  of  no  more  account 
than  the  shaking  of  the  leaves  on  the  trees." 

It  fell  out  that  after  the  battle  of  Antietam  there  feU  to  Alice's 
care,  among  others,  a  young  rebel  ojfficer,  evidently  a  person  of 
refinement  and  position.  He  entered  into  no  conversation.  His 
wounds  were  severe,  and  probably  fatal.  For  several  days  he 
maintained  a  proud  and  almost  defiant  reserve.  His  face  wore 
the  expression  of  suffering,  though  he  carefully  avoided  all  tokens 
of  pain. 

He  seemed  reluctant  to  get  well  at  the  hands  of  IiTortherners. 
Alice  hovered  about  him  as  if  there  was  some  fascination  which 
wrought  upon  her.  Nor  was  her  labor  of  love  unregarded.  Little 
by  little  the  young  officer  showed  a  pleasure  in  her  presence,  and 
a  docility  which  he  manifested  to  no  one  else.  That  pride  and 
repugnance  which  sickness  and  suffering  could  not  break,  began 
sensibly  to  yield  to  kindness. 

As  he  grew  weaker,  his  large  eyes,'  set  in  an  emaciated  face- 
frame,  followed  Alice  as  she  came  or  left,  as  a  child's  eyes  follow 
a  mother.  As  he  declined,  Alice,  as  often  as  she  could  snatch 
time,  read  to  him  the  Word  of  God,  or  sang  hymns  in  a  low,  sweet 
voice. 

"  I  know  not  what  it  is,"  said  she  to  Eose,  "  but  I  seem  to 
have  met  this  gentleman  before.  Of  course  I  do  not  suppose  that 
I  have  ;  but  there  is  something  in  his  voice  at  times  that  startles 
me.  I  can  hardly  help  saying,  'Where  haie  we  met  before?' 
Last  evenicg,  when  I  sung  to  him,  a  tear  ran  down  his  cheek  and 
he  said,  '  That's  my  brother's  favorite  hymn.'  He  turned  his  face 
to  me  and  said  : 

"  '  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me  your  name  ? ' 


450  Norwood ;  or, 

"  I  repeated  that  it  \7as  Alice  Cathcart,  of  Norwood,  in  Massa- 
chusetts." 

"  He  seemed  agitated,  and  looked  intently  at  me,  and  repeated 
it  several  times — '  Ah !  Alice — Cathcart.'  Then,  pausing  as  if  his 
mind  ran  hack  over  some  memory,  he  said,  musingly, — 'Alice 
Cathcart!  That  is  very  singular,  that  both  of  us  should  have 
fallen  under  your  care.' 

" '  Both  of  us  ? '  I  asked,  inquii-ingly.  '  Have  I  ever  met  you 
before?' 

"I  was  just  then  called  away.  But  to-morrow,  if  he  seems 
disposed  to  conversatiou,  I  mean  to  find  out  more  about  him." 

Yery  early  in  the  morning,  before  the  sun  was  up — before  it 
was  fairly  light — Alice  was  summoned  to  her  patient.  Mid-Sep- 
tember fogs  clouded  the  air  and  drenched  the  grass  and  leaves 
with  wet.  She  felt  a  chill  shivering  as  she  hastened  to  meet  the 
call.  He  was  fast  sinking.  It  was  evident  that  death  was  upon 
him.     He  revived  a  little.     Looking  upon  her,  he  said : 

"  Alice,  don't  leave  me.     I  have  much  to  say." 

Then,  his  voice  sinking  to  an  inaudible  whisper,  his  lips  moved 
for  a  minute  or  more.  A  little  stimulant  was  given  him,  and  for 
a  second  he  revived,  as  a  fire  on  which  a  handful  of  shavings  is 
thrown. 

"Tell  my  mother,  Alice" — and  his  voice  died  away,  though 
still  his  lips  moved. 

Once  or  twice  Alice  could  distinguish  names,  but  all  the  rest 
was  undistinguishable..  He  lay  for  a  few  moments  in  perfect 
stillness.  Suddenly  the  light  came  to  his  eyes,  and  he  looked" 
around  eagerly  as  if  following  a  vision.  It  was  but  a  flash.  The 
flame  went  out  and  all  was  still. 

Alice,  although  familiar  with  every  form  of  suffering,  was  so 
much  affected  by  the  death  of  the  young  rebel  officer  that  Agate 
Bissell  insisted  upon  her  retiring. 

Agate  herself  gave  orders  for  his  burial.  His  few  effects  were 
gathered  up.  His  watch  and  a  pocket-book  were  the  only  valua- 
bles. On  examining  them,  there  were  found  several  letters  from 
his  home — one  from  his  brother,  a  colonel  in  the  rebel  army — and 
bis  own  name, 

Hexey  C.  Heywood, 

Lynchburg^  Va. 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  451 

Agate  called  Rose  to  lier. 

"  This  young  man  is  your  friend  Tom  Hey  wood's  brother — the 
brother  Eal  he  used  to  mention  so  often." 

Rose  was  scarcely  less  affected  than  Alice  had  been.  For  a 
moment  she  was  overcome ;  but,  quickly  recovering  herself,  she 
enjoined  upon  Agate  the  most  profound  secrecy. 

"For  reasons  which  I  cannot  tell,  you  must  not  mention  this 
name  to  Alice.    It  will  do  no  good,  and  will  do  much  harm." 

Airate's  sharp  sagacity  needed  no  further  help.  She  had  her 
own  thoughts,  but  was  satisfied  to  leave  Rose  to  manage  the  matter 
as  it  pleased  her. 

At  the  evening  twilight  young  Heywood  was  quietly  buried, 
and  the  place  marked  securely.  As  soon  as  the  opportunity  could 
be  found  his  few  effects  were  sent  to  his  friends  and  with  them  a 
note  to  his  mother. 

"My  Deae  Madam  : — After  your  son  was  wounded  and  captured 
on  the  second  day  of  the  battle  of  Antietam,  he  came  to  the  hospi- 
tal of  which  I  have  charge.  Every  attention  was  paid  to  him.  A 
faithful  friend  ministered  to  his  religious  wants  with  the  fidelity 
and  tenderness  of  a  sister.  His  last  thoughts  rested  upon  his 
home.  He  called  by  name  his  various  relatives,  and  would  have 
sent  messages,  had  noc  his  death  been  more  sudden  than  he  antici- 
pated. I  pray  you  to  allow  me,  as  a  friend  of  Mr,  Thomas  Hey- 
wood, to  express  my  deep  sympathy  with  you. 

"Rose  Wextwoeth." 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

THANKSGIVING. 

When  November  came  in  1862,  came  also  in  Norwood  the 
renowned  Thanksgiving  Day,  the  holiday  of  old  New  England 
from  its  founding.  The  Pilgrims  found  it  written,  "  They  that 
sow  in  tears  shall  reap  in  joy.  He  that  goeth  forth  and  weepeth, 
bearing  precious  seed,  shall  doubtless  come  again  with  rejoicing, 
bringing  his  sheaves  with  him."  This  beautiful  poetry  was  trans- 
lated into  the  policy  of  the  Pilgrims  by  establishing  a  Fast-day,  in 
March  or  April,  and  a  Day  of  Thanksgiving  in  November.  Thus 
the  whole  people  were  to  pass  through  the  two  gates  of  the  year, 
Tears  and  Smiles,  and  observe  them  as  Holy  Days,  all  other  pro- 
fane and  misleading  festivities — Christmas,  New  Year's,  and 
Saints'  days  without  number,  being  laid  aside.  Both  days,  the 
Day  of  Fasting  and  the  Day  of  Thanksgiving,  were  to  be  esteemed 
religious  days,  and  so  kept.  On  the  forenoon  of  each  the  people 
were  to  assemble  in  their  churches  for  religious  services  and  a 
sermon.  On  these  days  good  ministers  were  allowed  a  wider 
pasture  than  was  befitting  the  Sabbath  Day,  and  were  expected 
to  discourse  upon  public  afiairs.  So  that  the  pulpit  had  two 
safety  valves,  and  the  minister  could  give  vent  to  his  opinions 
upon  matters  and  things  in  general  twice  a  year  without  danger 
of  being  unsettled,  on  the  one  side,  or,  on  the  other,  of  exploding 
from  pent-up  fire. 

If  any  where,  a  Fast  Day  ought  to  flourish  in  New  England. 
Not  that  its  people  were  acerb  and  superstitious,  but  they  derived 
their  tendencies  from  fathers  who  had  suffered  persecutions,  and 
to  whom  "strong  crying  and  tears"  were  familiar;  and  as  the 
religious  convictions  of  its  people  are  deep,  and  their  views  of 
duty  stern,  one  day  in  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  for  pubhc 
fasting  could  not  seem  unreasonable. 

In  the  beginning,  it  was  a  day  oi fasting.  The  steps  of  decline 
are  melancholy  and  instructive.  "Nothing  should  be  eaten  be- 
tween the  rising  and  the  setting  of  the  sun,"  would  seem  a  plain 
rule.    But  many  people  refused  such  rigor,  and  ate  their  breaJsfast 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  453 

with  the  foresight  that  it  must  last  till  supper,  leaving  out  dinner 
hy  way  of  fasting. 

But  soon,  while  breakfast  aud  supper  were  left  as  abutments 
on  each  side,  the  span  was  so  long  that  a  pier  of  crackers  and 
cheese  was  built  up  in  the  middle,  to  carry  the  fasting  safely  over. 
Xow  all  engineers  know  that  a  crib  sunken  in  a  stream,  or  a  pier, 
is  apt  to  become  a  point  around  which  a  deposit  is  soon  formed, 
and  even  islands  have  thus  grown  up  from  a  stake  driven  down  or 
a  mere  lodgment  of  brush.  And  so  it  was  with  Fast-day.  Crack- 
ers and  cheese  became  premises  of  an  argument.  If  crackers  may 
be  eaten  without  violation  of  fast,  why  not  gingerbread?  As  the 
court  before  which  these  questions  were  brought  often  held  its 
sessions  in  the  stomach,  the  case  was  decided  in  favor  of  ginger- 
bread. 

Thus,  with  lamentable  blindness,  doughnuts  were  added ;  and 
to  doughnuts  (with  astonishing  infatuation)  dried  smoked-beef; 
though,  with  a  latent  sense  of  the  danger,  it  was  shaved  exceed- 
ingly thin;  to  dried  beef  was  added  cold  chicken — small,  but 
young  and  tender ;  and  to  this,  cold  corned-beef.  A  plain  apple- 
pie  also  got  foot-hold.  But,  at  this  point,  devotion  made  a  stand 
against  luxury,  and  conquered.  The  worldliness  of  eating  hot 
dishes  was  happily  eschewed.  Cold  victuals  often  require,  and  so 
minister  to,  the  gracious  feehngs,  if  partaken  of  with  patience  and 
an  uncomplaining  spirit. 

In  the  early  day,  fasting  was  the  very  spirit  of  abstinence ; 
then,  the  spirit  of  moderation  in  eating ;  and  finally,  the  spirit  of 
abundance,  making  a  judicious  selection.  At  first,  all  intelligent 
creatures  fasted.  Then  servants  began  to  be  excused ;  then  deli- 
cate women;  and  then  robustious  children,  that  ran  roaring 
round  the  house  on  fast  days  as  if  it  were  an  exceeding  Sunday; 
and  finally.  Fasting  was  itself  the  only  thing  that  fasted  on  Fast- 
day. 

Meantime,  while  the  starved  Fast-day,  like  a  consumptive 
moon,  grew  pale,  and  thin,  and  wasted  away,  every  year  dying, 
and  yet  clinging  tenaciously  to  life,  the  well-fed  Thanksgiving- 
day,  like  a  new  moon,  grew  bright  and  round,  and  lay  upon  the 
year's  horizon  like  a  joyful  pumpkin  upon  the  ridges  of  a  Yankee 
corn  field ;  the  pumpkin !  sign  and  symbol  in  the  calendar  of  ISTew 
England  of  jovial  festivity !    And,  now,  Thanksgiving  may  be  seen 


454  Noncood ;  or, 

any  year,  in  the  mellow  days  of  November,  round  and  jolly,  with 

all  the  air  of  a  fat  old  English  Christmas;  while  in  April,  amidst 
blustering  winds  and  pinching  frosts,  its  defrauded  and  bankrupt 
brother,  very  poor  and  thin,  shambles  along,  wishing  it  were 
dead,  among  millions  of  hard-hearted  people  who  wish  so  too. 
And  so  Self-gratulation  flourishes  in  Xew  England,  while  Humilia- 
tion loses  popularity  every  year. 

Rose  "Wentworth  and  Alice  Cathcart  returned  home,  after  the 
great  labors  of  summer  and  autumn,  to  recruit  and  to  spend  the 
Thanksgiving.     Agate  Bissell  peremptorily  refused. 

"  Why  should  I  go  home  ?  I  have  enough  to  do,  and  I  love  to 
do  it.  ISTobody  can  take  as  good  care  of  my  boys  as  I  can.  And 
as  for  rest,  I  was  never  so  little  tired  in  my  life." 

In  fact,  Agate  was  living  in  an  undreamed  of  glory.  "With 
such  tender  duties,  so  important ;  with  such  scope,  and  so  many 
instruments ;  the  love  of  activity  which  had  all  her  life,  like  a 
subterranean  river,  flowed  darkly  and  hidden  within,  now  came  to 
the  surface  and  sparkled  in  the  light  without  hindrance  or  bound. 

"  There  can't  be  any  thanksgiving  to  me  like  taking  care  of 
four  hundred  men  that  have  been  wounded  for  their  country. 
But  then,  you  girls  ought  to  go.  You  have  fathers  and  mothers 
that  have  a  right  to  you.  I  have  none,"'  said  Agate  somewhat 
sadly. 

"TTell,  Agate,"  said  Eose,  a  little  slyly,  "you may  have  others 
who  would  like  to  see  you,  quite  as  near  as  if  they  were  fathers?  " 

"Whereat  Agate's  eye  twinkled  just  a  little,  and  she  bent  over 
to  put  up  the  bandages  again  which  had  tumbled  out  of  a  box. 

Eose  and  Alice  meant  to  slip  away  without  notice ;  but  in  some 
way  it  was  known,  and  they  had  to  pass  the  ordeal  of  gratitude. 
iSText  to  ingratitude  the  most  painful  thing  to  bear  is  gratitude.  A 
sensitive  nature  is  glad  to  know  that  one  is  grateful  and  that  one 
longs  to  show  it.  But  to  stand  in  the  focus  of  an  enthusiastic 
thanksgiving  is  awkward  enough. 

Few  can  express  thanks  gracefully,  and  fewer  yet  are  those 
who  can  gracefully  receive  them.  Both  Eose  and  Alice  found  this 
out  when  rough  men  thanked  them  for  their  very  lives,  and  others 
professed  that  they  had  been  more  than  mothers  to  them,  and 
some  craved  them  to  accept  a  button  or  some  token  of  their  prow- 
ess captured  in  battle.     Amidst  cheers,  and  some  tears,  too,  on 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  456 

hard  cheeks,  the  girls  got  away ;  and  though  their  faces  were 
homeward  and  their  hearts  eager,  there  was  a  heavy  feeling  that 
they  had  turned  their  hacks  upon  that  which  had  taken  hold  even 
deeper  than  Home ! 

After  the  natural  overflow  of  gladuess  at  being  once  more  at 
home  had  somewhat  subsided,  Eose  was  conscious  of  a  dull  dis- 
quiet, a  sense  of  the  emptiness  of  former  pleasure.  Common 
duties  and  the  ordinary  flow  of  village  life  were  tame  and  flavor- 
less. It  seemed  to  her  that  people  were  living  for  trifles,  and 
wasting  the  noblest  powers  upon  matters  scarcely  worth  a  thought. 
Indeed  she  chid  herself  for  wanting  natural  affection,  inasmuch  as 
her  own  home  failed  to  furnish  that  deep  content  which  she  for- 
merly knew.  So  long  had  she  been  engaged  in  the  profoundest 
tragedies  of  heroic  life,  that  the  simple  duties  of  peaceful  domestic 
circles  palled  npon  her  taste.  She  grew  restless,  and  longed  to 
return  to  the  exposures,  the  fatigues,  and  the  sufferings  even,  of 
the  hospital,  the  march  and  the  battlefield.  There  was,  too,  a 
strauge  uneasiness  of  conscience.  Her  judgment  told  her  that  she 
had  a  right  to  rest  and  to  recreation.  Yet  she  started  when  per- 
sons came  in,  as  if  they  would  reproach  her  for  indolence. 

But  the  winter  soon  wore  away,  and  in  March  both  Alice  and 
Rose  returned  to  their  labors  again,  and  prepared  to  enter  the 
campaign  of  Chancel! orsville  with  that  glorious  army  whose  only 
fault  was,  that  it  was  too  large  for  its  commander,  a  noble  sol- 
dier, within  a  circle  not  too  large. 

Before  March  had  done  blustering,  but  not  before  the  birds 
had  come,  our  two  brave  women,  glad  to  depart,  though  it  was 
from  homes  as  well  loved  as  any  for  which  mortal  heart  ever 
yearned,  turned  their  dear  faces  southward. 

Agate  Bissell  greeted  them  with  a  most  motherly  welcome. 
She  seemed  as  fresh  and  unworn  as  if  the  winter  had  been  a  long 
vacation. 

"  "Why,  Agate,"  said  Eose,  "  I  never  saw  you  look  so  well ! 
A  little  pale,— just  a  little.  But  I  suppose  that  is  because  you 
have  been  all  winter  under  a  roof.  Field  work  will  revive  your 
color." 

Eose  handed  her  a  package  of  letters,  and  among  them  one  from 
Dr.  Buell,  saying  archly,  as  she  saw  the  color  come  to  Agate's 
cheek : 

20* 


456  IS  or  wood  ;  or, 

"  On  second  thought,  I  do  not  know  but  you  have  as  much 
color  in  jour  cheek  as  ever." 

"  Eose,  jou  think  that  you  know  a  good  deal.  But  I  tell  you. 
if  you  do,  then  you  know  more  than  I  do !  You  may  read  the 
letter  and  welcome,"  said  Agate,  extending  the  open  letter  to  her. 
It  ran : 

"XoRwooD,  3Iarch  14,  1863. 

"Miss  Agate  Bissell — Dear  Madam:  At  Miss  Rose's  sug- 
gestion, I  write  you  a  line,  lest  under  the  accumulation  of  labors, 
and  in  hours  of  weariness,  you  may  be  in  danger  of  believing 
yourself  forgotten.  Truly,  every  pious  and  patriotic  heart  here  at 
home  thanks  you  for  your  excellent  and  most  praiseworthy  labors 
in  behalf  of  our  sick  and  wounded  soldiers.  Doubt  not  that  many 
prayers  ascend  for  you  daily,  mine  among  the  number.  The  Lord 
is  preparing  you,  it  may  be,  for  future  important  labors,  in  a 
school  where  so  much  of  patience  and  of  wisdom  are  required,  and 
whatever  may  be  the  divine  counsels  which  respect  the  future, 
may  He  overrule  all  to  his  own  honor  and  glory. 

"  The  meetings  are  well  attended.  A  gracious  spu-it  is  found 
in  the  female  prayer-meeting.  Polly  Marble  is  dead,  and  the 
deacon  is  very  much  afflicted.  She  was  very  faithful  to  hira,  and 
her  last  breath  was  spent  in  exhorting  him,  in  an  edifying  manner. 
It's  a  great  loss,  indeed,  to  him,  and  to  all  of  us,  but  a  gain  to  her. 

"  There  has  been  an  interest  in  the  church  this  winter,  and 
several  persons  give  pleasing  evidence  of  a  saving  change.  May 
they  run  well!  All  your  friends  will  rejoice  when  your  duties 
shall  allow  you  to  return  home,  and  none  more  than  your  friend 
and  affectionate  pastor,  Jedediah  Buell." 

The  campaign  of  Chancellorsville  opened  in  May,  1863.  Gen- 
eral Barton  Cathcart — for  he  had  been  advanced  in  rank, — learn- 
ing of  his  sister's  presence,  sought  her  out  immediately  after  the 
withdrawal  of  his  brigade  to  the  north  side  of  the  Rapidan.  Eose 
TTentworth  was  engaged  in  the  hospital  transport  service,  and 
spent  most  of  her  time,  for  weeks,  upon  the  steamboats  that  con- 
veyed the  wounded  from  the  depots  along  the  Potomac  to  Wash- 
ington. Barton  failed  to  see  her.  But  Agate  Bissell  and  hie 
sister  Alice,  as  soon  as  the  army  settled  again  in  its  former  camps, 
he  found.     The  movements  of  the  army  to  the  west  and  north 


Village  Life  in  JS'eio  England.  457 

Boon  separated  them  again,  nor  did  they  approach  each  other 
afterwards  till  the  great  battle  of  Gettysburg,  toward  which  we 
will  now  wend  our  way. 

Early  in  June,  1863,  Lee  began,  with  great  skill  of  secrecy,  to 
transfer  the  bulk  of  his  army  from  before  Hooker's  line  to  the 
Shenandoah  valley,  preparatory  to  a  sudden  invasion  of  Maryland 
and  Pennsylvania,  by  which  masterly  movement  he  had  good 
reason  to  hope  that  the  war  would  be  removed  from  Virginia, 
which  had  already  suffered  incredible  ills,  as  the  chief  battle- 
ground, to  Pennsylvania,  where  an  army  might  be  easily  sustained ; 
and,  if  Hooker's  army  were  defeated,  Baltimore  and  Philadelphia 
would  become  prizes.  Washington,  cut  off  from  the  north,  must 
then  fall ;  and  not  far  off  from  such  an  event  must  come  peace, 
with  the  recognition  of  Southern  independence. 

!N"or  can  one  now,  after  the  event,  standing  in  General  Lee's 
place,  and  reasoning  upon  the  facts  as  they  then  appeared^  and  as 
we  now  know  them  to  have  actually  been,  charge  him  with  un- 
sobriety  of  expectation.  There  were  good  and  sound  mihtary 
reasons  for  expecting  success,  and  success  would  in  all  likelihood 
have  been  decisive  of  the  results  of  the  war. 

After  the  battle  of  Chancellorsville,  in  May,  the  army  under 
Lee  had,  in  numbers,  equipment,  but  above  all  in  the  confidence 
of  its  own  irresistibleness,  reached  the  highest  point  of  its  history. 
It  certainly  had  cause  for  self-confidence. 

It  had  resisted  the  whole  power  of  the  Union  for  two  years, 
with  but  one  grand  defeat,  while  it  wrote  upon  its  banners  the 
great  victories  of  the  Seven  Days  of  the  Peninsula,  of  Fredericks- 
burg, of  Second  Bull's  Kun,  and  of  Chancellorsville. 

One  general  only  had  that  army  had,  or  desired,  after  it  was 
fairly  organized.  Both  the  North  and  the  South  bore  witness  to 
his  ability — the  South  by  an  enthusiastic  admiration  and  confi- 
dence ;  the  North  by  four  times  changing  the  general  of  the  Army 
of  the  Potomac  opposed  to  him. 

On  the  third  year  of  the  war,  with  an  army  invincible  thus  far, 
and  a  commander  whose  name  had  gone  out  into  all  the  world,  it 
is  not  strange  that  they  should  be  resolved  to  transfer  the  field 
of  battle  from  Virginia,  which  was  but  one  great  mountain-clad 
fort,  long  enough  besieged  and  seared  with  fire,  and  let  the  north- 
ern fields  take  their  turn  of  blasting,  blood  and  flame  ! 


458  Norwood ;  or, 

"With  their  faces  aglow  with  the  victory  of  Chancellorsville, 
Lee's  army  skilfully  glided  past  Hooker,  entered  the  valley  of  the 
Shenandoah,  drove  out  or  consumed  the  loyal  forces,  and,  in  the 
last  days  of  June,  burst  into  the  Cumberland  valley,  in  Pennsyl- 
vania. Their  cavalry,  like  the  biting  scud  of  a  storm,  spread 
instantly,  and  scoured  all  the  defenceless  region  to  the  banks  of 
the  Susquehanna.  With  promptness  and  admirable  decision,  Lee 
stretched  out  Swell's  corps  and  dividing  it,  as  with  his  right  hand, 
seized  York,  thus  threatening  Baltimore  and  Washington ;  with 
his  left  hand  he  seized  Carlisle,  aiming  at  Harrisburg  and  Phila- 
delphia; while  his  main  body  lay  at  Chambersburg,  near  the  head 
of  the  valley  of  the  Cumberland. 

Then  it  was  that  he  learned  that  Hooker,  moving  in  pursuit, 
had  crossed  the  Potomac,  concentrated  at  Frederick,  with  his  face 
as  though  determined  to  strike  aci'oss  the  foot  of  the  Cumberland 
valley  and  cut  off  his  line  of  communication  with  Virginia.  To  com- 
pel Hooker  to  let  this  enterprise  alone,  Lee  drew  back  his  advanced 
corps  from  York  to  Carlisle,  with  orders  to  concentrate  with  the 
centre,  which  poured  through  a  pass  in  the  South  Mountain,  upon 
Gettysburg,  a  small  village  in  the  eastern  skirts  of  the  mountain 
range ;  and  so,  Lee  said,  in  effect,  if  you  touch  my  line  of  com- 
munication I  will  seize  "VTashington. 

But,  before  this  movement  was  known,  or  even  half-way  de- 
veloped. Hooker  retired  from  command,  and  the  fifth  commander 
in  order  came  to  the  head  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac.  Ignorant 
of  Lee's  purposes,  and  knowing  in  general  only  that  he  was  ad- 
vancing to  the  centre  of  Pennsylvania,  Meade,  abandoning 
Hooker's  plan,  spread  his  army  along  the  eastern  side  of  the  South 
Mountain,  parallel  to  Lee's  line,  determined  to  follow  him  to  the 
Susquehanna  and  bring  him  to  battle. 

But  two  marches  had  Meade  made,  bringing  his  army  up 
nearly  abreast  of  Gettysburg,  somewhat  to  the  east  and  south- 
east of  it,  when  he  had  reason  to  believe  that  Lee  was  concentra- 
ting on  the  east  of  South  Mountain.  Meade's  left  wing,  three 
corps,  under  Eeynolds,  advanced  upon  Gettysburg  to  discover  the 
enemy,  as  well  as  to  hide  the  operations  of  the  centre  and  right 
wing.  While  Buford  was  pricking  and  probing  the  country  with 
his  cavalry,  on  the  29th  of  June,  he  rode  into  Gettysburg,  and 
was  there  stumbled  upon  the  next  day,  June  30,  by  the  advanced 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England,  459 

guard  of  the  Southern  army.  Thus  the  two  armies  approached 
each  other,  big  with  terrific  battle,  as  unconscious  of  the  imminent 
shock  as  are  two  summer  clouds,  charged  with  storms,  and  mov- 
ing upon  opposite  winds  silently  toward  each  other. 

Three  days  of  battle  there  were ; — one  on  the  outlying  hills 
beyond  the  town,  and  two  along  the  slopes  and  rooky  crests  south 
and  east  of  Gettysburg; — three  days,  on  which  the  Southern 
army  rolled  in  and  broke  upon  the  rocky  ridges  of  the  North,  as 
spring  tides  moving  with  the  power  of  the  ocean  behind  them  beat 
high  and  fierce  upon  a  rocky  coast,  and  retreat  again  to  the  dark 
caves  of  the  sea ! 

This  was  a  battle  between  the  men  of  the  tropics  and  the  men 
of  the  temperate  zones.  It  was  to  be  decided  whether  the  gods 
of  the  valleys  or  the  gods  of  the  hills  were  the  mightier.  The  fat 
Southern  soils,  tilled  by  enforced  labor,  made  war  on  the  rocks  of 
the  North,  where  men  by  hard  labor  had  learned  patience  and 
skill.  Two  battles  there  were  waged  in  one.  Principles  were 
contending  in  the  air,  while  men  were  fighting  on  the  ground. 
And  when  on  the  night  of  the  fourth  of  July,  the  army  of  the 
South,  sullenly  and  in  the  dark,  drew  back  from  the  farms  of 
Pennsylvania  and  retreated  southward,  it  was  not  alone  the  defeat 
of  the  army,  but  far  more  of  the  political  economy,  the  genius  of 
government,  and  the  evil  spirit  of  a  perverted  religion,  that  had 
inspired  the  conflict  and  given  moral  significance  to  the  Piebellion. 

But  we  have  overrun  our  story,  or,  rather,  gone  before  to  pre- 
pare a  way  for  the  maiden's  feet  to  tread. 


CHAPTER  L. 

ON    THE    M  AKCH. 

A  GEEAT  excitement  filled  Wasliington  when  it  was  known  that 
Lee  had  entered  Pennsylvania.  The  darkness  which  had  hung 
painfully  over  his  movements  was  cleared  away.  The  sweep  of 
Jenkins'  cavalry,  the  rapid  movement  of  Ewell  upon  the  Susque- 
hanna, the  opening  of  the  rebel  general's  plans  with  such  decis- 
ion as  indicated  his  sense  of  power  and  confidence  of  victory,  were 
enough  to  account  for  excitement.  But  an  invasion  was  something 
new.  The  intrusion  of  Lee  the  year  before  into  Maryland  scarcely 
punctured  the  rind  of  the  Free  States.  But  now  it  was  reaching  at 
the  core.  Such  an  uproar  was  never  known  among  the  farmers  of 
Pennsylvania.  The  old  Dutch  settlers  at  last  experienced  a  thrill  I 
Three  years  had  they  probably  been  in  doubt  whether  hostilities 
had  broken  out  or  not.  They  were  conservative  men.  They 
would  not  be  carried  away  with  rumors.  IsTewspapers  they  rarely 
saw,  and  then  only  to  doubt  them.  But  the  cavalry  raids,  the 
sweeping  up  of  their  stock,  the  sudden  departure  of  horses  from 
the  plough  and  wagon,  and  the  farewell  cackles  of  expiring  hens, 
were  things  to  be  believed.  In  fine,  eighty  thousand  men,  with 
Lee  at  their  head,  had  power  to  drive  a  new  idea  into  the  heads  of 
the  Pennsylvania  Dutch  around  Gettysburg.  But  once  in,  that 
idea  of  war  wrought  mightily.  They  raised  a  clamor  that  filled 
the  State.  Like  Munchausen's  horn,  which,  when  hung  near  the 
fire,  played  all  the  tunes  which  had  been  frozen  up  in  it  through 
the  winter,  so  all  those  hopes  and  fears,  doubts  and  enthusiams, 
which  play  out  of  common  people's  lives,  but  freeze  up  in  the 
Dutch  mind  of  Southern  Pennsylvania,  were  now  thawed  out  by 
tbe  fire  of  war  into  clamorous  racket,  which  went  echoing  through 
the  cities  of  the  country  as  if  the  Last  Day  had  indeed  come  ! 

All  manner  of  wild  rumors  filled  Baltimore  and  "Washington. 
As  soon  as  Hooker's  army  had  crossed  the  Potomac,  it  was  known 
to  the  Sanitary  Commission  that  a  great  battle  must  soon  be  fought. 
Energetic  measures  were  taken  to  prepare  succor  for  the  wounded. 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England.  461 

Wagons  were  loaded  with  clothing,  food,  cordials,  blankets,  tents, 
and  "with  all  those  numberless  delicacies  often  so  much  better  to 
the  sick  and  wounded  than  medicine.  Nurses  and  ladies  were 
summoned.  It  behoved  the  Sanitary  Commission  to  be  on  the 
ground  as  soon  as  a  blow  was  struck.  This  was  its  golden  oppor- 
tunity. Its  mission  was  not  to  supersede  the  Medical  Department 
of  the  army,  but,  being  more  lithe  and  nimble,  to  anticipate  the 
regular  unfolding  of  organized  succor ;  to  meet  exigencies  not 
otherwise  provided  for ;  to  fill  up  gaps  and  intervals,  and  to  per- 
form, by  the  presence  of  women,  as  noble  as  ever  ministered  in 
temple  or  sanctuary,  those  offices  of  consolation  and  Christian 
instruction  to  the  dying,  or  desperately  wounded,  which  trans- 
cended the  functions  of  the  Medical  Department. 

Signs  multiplied  of  urgent  danger  and  impetuous  haste. 
The  great  hour  of  Destiny  was  advancing.  The  Departments  of 
Government,  the  city  of  Washington  and  the  whole  region  round 
about  were  like  a  boiling  caldron.  As  if  more  fuel  was  needed, 
Stuart  and  his  large  body  of  cavalry  sought  to  regain  Lee's  army, 
and,  crossing  the  Potomac  at  Seneca  Creek,  swept  up  through 
Maryland,  flirting  their  wings  in  the  face  of  Washington  and  Balti- 
more as  they  passed,  and  stirring  up  all  tlie  region  as  if  they  had 
been  flying  dragons. 

No  wonder,  when,  on  the  28th  of  June,  the  sentinels  and  citi- 
zens saw  mounted  men  looking  right  into  the  city  of  Washington, 
and  then  scuds  of  cavalry  whirling  around  Baltimore,  that  troops 
were  on  foot,  citizens  armed  and  hastily  rushed  to  the  lines  of 
defence,  and  that  a  thousand  rumors,  mixing  truth  and  the  fictions 
of  fear,  filled  the  air. 

Hiram  Beers  started  forth  with  a  line  of  eight  wagons,  to  over- 
take the  army.  Others  were  speedily  to  follow,  while  the  rail- 
roads were  to  be  employed,  so  soon  as  the  battle-field  was  deter- 
mined, for  the  bulk  of  transportation.  He  took  the  Rockville  road, 
aiming  at  Frederick,  where,  in  a  conveyance  of  their  ow^n.  Agate 
Bissell  was  to  meet  him,  with  Rose  and  Alice.  At  Rockville  he 
was  warned  to  turn  back— the  enemy  filled  the  country.  A  train 
had  just  been  seized  and  burnt. 

"  That's  lucky  for  me,"  said  Hiram.  "  You  don't  see  a  cannon 
ball  go  through  the  same  hole  twice.  I  guess  the  enemy  hasn't 
made  up  his  mind  to  stop,  yet  a  while,  and  if  he's  gobbled  up 


462  Norwood ;  or, 

trains  ahead  of  me,  it  stands  to  reason  that  he'll  be  gone  afere  I 
git  there." 

"  There's  no  tellin',  stranger,"  said  the  old  man  who  was 
informing  him,  "  how  many  there  is  of  'em.  1  heara  tell  that  the 
country's  full  on  'em.  Jake  Armistead  has  been  out,  you  know 
in  the  rebel  army,  though  he's  home  now,  and  Union  too,  till  his 
wounds  get  well,  and  tie  sez,  there  must  be  nigh  about  ten  thou- 
sand, and  that  they  cover  the  hull  country  thick  as  pigeons  in 
acorn  time.  I  reckon,  stranger,  that  they'd  like  to  take  a  look  at 
your  wagons." 

Hiram  pushed  his  hat  up  a  trifle,  on  his  forehead,  and  drawing 
a  knife  out  of  his  pocket,  as  if  utterly  at  ease,  said,  as  he  began 
slowly  and  smoothly  to  curl  the  shavings  off  the  edge  of  a  white 
pine  stick : 

"  Thank'ee,  sir.  I  guess  they've  got  something  else  to  look 
after  by  this  time.  "Why,  sir,  there's  twenty  thousand  troopers 
gone  up  after  'em  from  "Washington,  and  Hooker,  he's  got  a  hund- 
red thousand  men  at  Frederick,  and  there's  a  hundred  thousand 
more  in  Washington  and  Baltimore,  and  more  comin'  from  the 
North  every  hour." 

"  More  comin'  ?  " 

"  More  ?  Why,  you  hain't  begun  to  see  yet.  Fact  is,  the  North 
is  just  wakin'  up.  We  hain't  done  nothin'  yet  but  cut  out  the 
work.  There's  nobody  gone  hardly.  You  wouldn't  think  there 
was  a  man  missin'.  But,  now  we  see  what's  to  do  we  are  goin'  to 
send  down  a  million  men,  right  oftV 

There  had  collected,  by  this  time,  quite  a  crowd  around  Hiram's 
teams,  and  he  was  improving  the  time  while  his  horses  ate  cats  to 
make  a  salutary  impression  on  the  Maryland  mind. 

An  ex-rebel  soldier  seemed  somewhat  better  informed : 

"  Lee  has  got  York,  and  Carlisle,  and,  in  a  day  or  two,  he'll 
have  Harrisburg,  and  then  look  out  for  fan !  " 

Hiram  looked  at  him  fixedly,  as  one  who  is  in  doubt  whether 
he  will  impart  a  secret : 

"  WeU,  I  guess  it  won't  do  no  hurt  to  tell  out  now.  But  our 
folks  jest  left  Carlisle  on  purpose  to  tempt  'em — like  toasted 
cheese  in  a  trap ;  if  Lee's  nibblin',  you  may  depend  on't,  he'll  find 
that  he's  caught." 

"  Ah,  old  Yank,  you  can't  come  that  over  me.    Lee's  used  to 


ViUafje  Life  in  New  En  (/I and.  463 

nibbliD*  Yankee  cheese.  He  ate  some  at  Fredericksburg,  and  he's 
jest  been  nibblin'  a  pretty  large  cheese  at  Chancellorsville,  and,  by 
the  time  you'll  get  there,  I  guess  you'll  find  the  old  rat  has  gnawed 
his  "way  out." 

Nothing  daunted  by  the  laugh,  Hiram,  with  a  look  of  undis- 
turbed confidence,  just  a  little  touched  with  pity  for  their  igno- 
rance, walked  away  toward  his  wagons. 

"Do  you  really  think,"  said  one  of  his  drivers,  in  an  anxious 
tone,  "  that  it's  safe  to  go  on? " 

" Safe?  what  are  you  'feard  of?  Lee  is  jest  like  a  walnut  in  a 
nut-cracker.     They'll  smash  him,  sure." 

"I  shouldn't  care  about  bein'  caught.  A  prisoner  on  foot, 
trottin'  along  with  cavalry,  don't  feel  as  comfortable  as  if  he  was 
to  hum ! " 

"Is  that  so?  "  said  Hiram,  very  soberly. 

"TVal,  it  is.  I  tell  ye — mebbe  you  hain't  tried  it?  I've  trav- 
elled ye  see,  and  don't  want  to  do  it  any  more.  The  fust  time — 
Mosby's  men,  they  tuck  me.  Wal,  one  on  'em  took  a  fancy  to  my 
cap,  and  swopped.  I  got  something  to  boot  though,"  said  the 
driver,  beginning  to  scratch  his  head,  "every  time  I  think  of  that 
old  felt  hat  that  he  guv'  me,  somehow  I  feel  like  scratchin'.  An- 
other man,  he  wanted  my  shoes,  and  I  lent  'em  to  him.  They 
never  cum  back.  Then  one  of  the  oflficers  took  a  likin'  to  my 
coat;  and,  at  last,  a  darned  rascal  made  me  get  out  of  ray  britches. 
In  less  than  five  minutes  I  didn't  know  myself,  and  kept  lookin' 
'round  to  see  where  I  was.  But  I  found  out  afore  they'd  done 
with  me." 

"  Wal,"  said  Hiram,  "  drive  on ;  I  don't  expect  any  body  to 
catch  me." 

"  Xobody  expects  to  be  caught.  You  see,  a  feller  is  goin'  along, 
drivin'  his  horses  and  chawin'  his  tobacker,  thinkin'  about  the 
home  folks,  touchin'  up  fust  one  horse  and  then  another,  when — 
right  ahead — fizz!  bang!  whang!  bang!  and  then,  behind  in  the 
line,  you  hear  it  again — whang !  bang  1 — and  a  hundred  horse- 
men whirl  in  on  you,  cut  out  your  wagons,  and,  afore  the  soldiers 
can  get  up,  twenty  wagons  are  drivin'  off  like  mad,  and  rebel 
soldiers  a-prickin'  the  mules  with  bayonets,  and  afore  you  fairly 
know  which  eend  you  stand  on,  they're  all  in  the  mountains  and 
you're  dividin'  your  clothes  with  the  ragamuffins." 


464  Norwood ;  or, 

Hiram  laughed  at  the  descriptive  misery,  but  ordered  forward 
the  teams. 

"I've  no  idea  of  lettin'  them  Southern  fellers  have  the  handhn' 
of  these  goods.  Pretty  business  for  our  folks  to  set  up  nights  to 
knit  stockin's,  and  then  have  the  rebels  put  'em  on  to  fight  our 
boys  with!  They  didn't  have  an  apple-parin'  at  our  town  to 
make  apple-sarse  for  Lee's  army,  I  guess!  Golly!  what  would 
Marm  Marble  say  if  she  should  hear  that  the  rebs  had  got  her 
dried  apples  and  punkins  ?  No,  no ;  they  shan't  poke  their  nasty 
fingers  into  my  sweetmeats.  I  didn't  fetch  these  nice  liquors  for 
their  accommodation.  Liquors  is  a  good  thing  in  its  place.  But, 
as  a  general  thing,  I'm  of  opinion  that  the  very  worst  place  you 
can  put  good  liquors  into  is  a  feller's  stomach !  If  a  feller's  been 
tapped  with  a  bullet,  that  may  make  a  difl:erence.  But  I  don't 
believe  the  Lord  ever  made  that  hole  in  a  man's  face  to  pour  liquor 
through." 

"Wal,"said  one  of  his  men,  "then  there's  been  an  amazin' 
oversight  somewhere.  There's  been  a  sight  of  liquor  got  through 
the  wrong  place,  then!  " 

Hiram  got  safely  to  Frederick,  and  met  there  the  agents  and 
ladies  of  the  Commission.  But  Meade  had  been  gone  a  day.  The 
order  then  was  to  follow  up  the  army  and  to  keep  within  easy 
reach  of  it. 

The  next  morning  the  whole  party  were  on  the  road.  Hiram 
expressed  himself  on  the  subject  of  armies : 

"If  there  ever  was  any  thing  that  beat  all  creation  in  bein'  ex- 
pensive, it's  an  army.  It  runs  off  property  as  fast  as  a  river  does 
water.  It's  waste,  waste,  waste !  Enough  is  trod  under  foot  every 
day  to  feed  a  town,  and  when  they're  marchin',  they're  wuss  than 
buffaloes  in  a  corn-field.  But  the  hind  end  of  an  army  is  about 
the  most  disagreeable  place  that  I  know  on.  The  stragglers,  and 
traders,  and  rascals,  strain  through,  and  leave  a  welt  of  dirt  for 
miles  and  miles  behind.  I  couldn't  sleep  a  wink  last  night. 
Frederick  was  chuck-full  of  roarin',  drinkin'  fellers,  fightin'  and 
yellin'.  I  think  the  hind-end  of  an  army  is  more  dangerous  than 
its  fore-end.  It's  like  Gran'ther  Morse's  old  musket,  that  would 
tear  you  to  pieces  if  you  were  before  it,  and  kick  you  to  pieces 
if  you  stood  behind  it.  The  only  place  where  it  was  safe  was 
hangin'  up  over  the  fire-place  to  hum.     An  army  is  a  very  dan- 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  465 

gerous  thing,  anyhow,  and  awful  extravagant.  I  s'pose  we  must 
fight  it  through  now,  though.  Don't  see  no  other  way.  But, 
if  ever  this  war's  over,  I'm  goin'  to  jine  an  Everlastin'  Peace 
Society." 

As  the  party  journeyed  on,  at  every  mile  evidences  multiplied 
that  the  army  was  not  far  away.  Stragglers  abounded.  The 
main  army  seemed  to  have  done  no  damage.  One  would  not,  ex- 
cept for  the  beaten  roads,  and  some  little  invasion  of  fields,  the 
breaking  here  and  there  of  a  cherry  branch,  whose  luscious  fruit 
tempted  its  own  fate,  have  dreamed  that  eighty  thousand  men  had 
passed ;  but,  after  the  army  came  the  herd  of  stragglers.  They 
robbed  houses,  stole  horses  from  the  stables,  and  in  drunken 
knots  caroused  or  threatened  those  who  were  weak. 

Eose  looked  out  upon  the  wondrous  brightness  of  those  June 
days — no,  it  was  the  first  of  July — marvelling  in  her  thoughts  how 
the  enginery  of  death  could  be  moving  through  all  this  peace  and 
beauty  to  its  dreaded  work.  The  sky  was  deep.  Drifting  through 
it  in  profound  leisure — drifting  so  slowly  and  gently  that  they 
hardly  seemed  to  move,  were  soft  and  small  clouds.  So  long  had 
Eose  now  been  trained  in  scenes  of  pain  and  terror  that  her  heart 
knew  its  own  courage  ;  and  though  there  was  in  the  very  air,  and 
through  all  its  brightness,  a  certain  sadness,  as  if  already  she  felt 
the  horrors  of  that  distant  battle,  whose  sounds,  though  it  was 
already  begun,  were  not  heard,  Eose's  thoughts  floated  peacefully 
as  those  flecks  of  brihiant  cloud,  dazzling  white,  mixed  with 
shades  and  shadows. 

"Eootless  and  stemless,  ye  grow,  O  clouds!  The  winds  that 
roar  upon  forests  shake  no  sounds  out  of  your  silent  forms. 
Without  seed  or  sowing,  ye  grow.  Ye  wither  without  frost,  or 
the  axe,  and  pass  away  in  an  hour.  Ye  grow  alike  in  winter  as  in 
summer,  and  shake  down  from  your  boughs  drops  or  flakes  in 
both  seasons.  Yet  no  man  may  plant  you,  nor  till  you,  nor  play 
husbandry  in  the  realm  where  ye  dwell." 

"I  s'pose  you're  thinkin',  Miss  Eose,"  said  Hiram,  "that  it's 
time  to  have  something  to  eat.  Well,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
'twas." 

"Yes,  Hiram,  I  was  thinking  of  harvests,  but  not  exactly  such 
as  could  be  eaten." 

""Well,  I'll  see  what  can  be  done.     The  fact  is,  the  soldiers  are 


466  Norivood ;  or, 

yonder,  jBllin'  all  the  road,  and  I  don't  b'lieve  we  can  git  along 
much  further.     You  wait  a  bit,  and  I'll  go  and  see." 

In  a  moment  Rose  was  dreaming  again,  with  her  face  turned 
toward  the  clouds. 

"Out  of  such  stillness  of  white  come  storms!  Ye  are  tha 
mothers  of  thunder !  Hidden  there  is  the  lightning !  IN'ow  ye 
are  palaces  of  silence,  but  to-morrow  all  the  sounds  of  storm  shall 
resound  among  you !  And  so  out  of  men's  loving  hearts  comes 
hatred,  and  out  of  men's  consciences  comes  war,  and  all  that 
makes  peace  beautiful  changes  in  battle  to  mighty  wrath,  to  awful 
cruelty,  to  remorseless  slaughter.  Even  now — who  knows? — 
while  I  look  upon  this  serene  heaven,  Barton,  perhaps,  is  in  the 
heat  of  fight ;  it  may  be  he  lies  wounded,  or  dying,  because  no 
one  binds  up  his  wounds " 

"What  on  earth's  the  matter.  Miss  Rose — are  ye  cryin'?" 
said  Hiram,  and  without  waiting  for  an  answer  he  went  on — "  It's 
no  time  for  cryin'  now — ^the  battle  is  goin'  on.  "We've  heerd  from 
Gettysburg — some  say  it's  all  on  om*  side,  and  some  say  t'other 
way,  and  nobody  knows  any  thing  about  it.  But  the  headquar- 
ters is  movin',  'and  the  whole  army  is  goin'  ahead.  If  you  mean 
to  get  there  to-night  we  must  be  stirrin',  I  can  tell  ye." 

Rose  consulted  with  the  agents  of  the  Commission  in  charge 
of  the  company,  and  it  was  considered  useless  to  attempt  to  force 
their  way  along  the  roads  by  which  the  army  was  moving,  already 
choked  up  with  artillery,  supply  trains,  and  the  troops.  In  their 
perplexity  Hiram  started  out  to  explore.  He  soon  returned. 
With  him  came  also  a  military  man  of  distinguished  bearing.  A 
staff  officer  rode  by  his  side,  and  a  colored  man  stood  at  a  little 
distance  grinning  and  looking  at  Rose  in  the  most  extraordinary 
manner. 

An  outcry  from  Alice  was  Barton  Cathcart's  introduction. 
She  sprung  out  of  the  carriage  and  threw  herself  into  his  arms 
with  impassioned  fondness.  He  looked  down  upon  his  sister  with 
a  look  of  the  proudest  love.  For  a  moment  the  blood  left  Rose's 
cheek,  but  then  came  again  with  a  rebound. 

"  Oh!  Barton,"  said  Alice,  "  to  see  you  here,  in  this  strange 
place,  is  like  a  breath  from  home.    But  there  is  Rose  coming  to 


you." 


Rose's  first  impulse  was  not  to  intrude  upon  him.     Hex  next 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  46 '7 

and  better  thought  was,  "It  is  Barton,  my  childhood  friend,"  and 
in  a  moment  every  other  thought  was  gone,  and  with  a  gladness 
scarcely  less  demonstrative  than  Alice's,  Rose  reached  both  her 
hands  to  Barton.  But  he  was  more  embarrassed.  Eose's  warmth 
of  manner  seemed  to  touch  him.  He  had  prepared  for  a  more 
formal  meeting. 

"  This  is  very  kind.  Miss  "Wentworth." 

"  No,  no,  Barton — I  am  not  Miss  "Wentworth — to  you — I  arc 
Rose ;  the  same  names  which  we  used  in  childhood,  if  you 
please." 

A  throng  of  memories  crowded  his  mind.  His  heart  was  like 
a  vortex  in  which  strong  feelings  whirled.  He  would  have  spoken, 
but  seemed  like  one  who  hesitates  which  of  many  things  to  say 
first.  He  fixed  upon  Rose  a  look  so  full  of  inquiry,  and  yet  so 
imploring  and  hungry,  a  look  fall  of  eagerness  and  helplessness, 
that  Rose  to  her  dying  day  never  forgot  it.  "Words  are  of  the 
flesh,  opaque.    Looks  are  of  the  spirit,  luminous. 

The  pause  was  embarrassing.  Rose  first  plucked  up  her  voice 
and  said : 

"Barton,  we  are  going  with  you.  Can  we  get  along  in  time 
on  this  route,  or  shall  we  be  delayed  ?  The  roads  are  choked  up 
with  the  army." 

"  You  had  better  keep  with  my  Division.  We  are  pushing  on 
with  all  our  might.  The  day  has  gone  wrong,  and  we  must  all  be 
up  to-night." 

There  was  time  but  for  a  few  words,  hurried  and  almost  inco- 
herent. In  a  moment  Barton  was  gone.  It  was  a  dream !  They 
awake  to  see  him  disappear  among  the  throngs  beyond ! 

It  was  late  before  they  reached  the  vicinity  of  Gettysburg.  All 
the  way  Barton's  look  dwelt  with  Rose.  The  most  emphatic 
revelations  of  the  soul  are  made  through  glances  of  the  eye.  By 
the  looks  only  can  the  soul  signify  complex  experiences — hope, 
fear,  yearning,  love,  sad  and  sorrowful — and  all  in  an  instant. 
These  revelations  of  the  soul's  inmost  life  will  not  be  incarnated  in 
the  rude  materials  of  common  language.  But  a  look  is  almost 
as  immaterial  as  a  thought.  A  glance  is  a  fit  incarnation  of 
a  thing  so  tender  as  love.  ITot  what  they  say  do  we  remember  of 
absent  friends  ;  but,  how  they  looked  while  saying  it.  TTe  live 
apon  the  meaning  of  the  expressions  of  the  face  more  than  of  the 


468  Norwood ;  or, 

tongue.     The  silences  which  speech  carries  along  with  it  are  often 
more  emphatic  than  the  words. 

By  a  side  road,  Hiram  had  got  his  party  out  from  the  tangle  of 
the  Taneytown  road,  and  was  making  his  way  over  to  the  Baltimore 
turnpike.  Although  the  moon  was  of  some  slight  help,  yet,  by 
eight  o'clock,  the  jaded  horses  and  scarcely  less  jaded  company 
were  glad  to  find  a  farm-house  where  they  might  sleep.  By  the 
faint  moonlight  Hiram  descried  a  palace  of  a  barn  near  at  hand. 

"Aha !  "  said  Hiram,  " there  is  a  Dutch  barn.  Now  we  shall 
stumble  over  the  hovel  pretty  soon." 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Agate. 

"I  mean,"  replied  Hiram,  "  that  them  Pennsylvania  Dutch 
think  more  of  their  horses  than  they  do  of  themselves.  A  feller 
travellin'  round  here  awhile  almost  wishes  he  was  a  horse.  The 
houses  are  mean ;  the  barns  are  magnificent." 

Hiram,  for  once,  had  to  take  back  his  words,  for  they  ap- 
proached a  large  and  comely  farm-house,  which  would  have  done 
no  discredit  to  the  elm  homes  of  jSTew  England.  Every  thing  about 
it  was  still.  Though  it  was  not  yet  nine  o'clock,  not  a  light  was 
burning. 

"I  guess,"  said  Hiram,  "that  they're  gone  out  to  see  the 
sights.  'Tain't  every  day  that  a  Dutchman  sees  an  army.  I  guess 
they  think  the  day  of  judgment  is  come.  They  wOl  if  there's  much 
fightin'  to-morrow." 

He  was  again  mistaken.  The  family  were  abed  and  soundly 
asleep.  A  rap  at  the  door  brought  the  owner  out  of  bed,  and  his 
honest  face  to  the  door. 

"  Can  we  git  leave  to  stay  here  to-night  ?  "  said  Hiram. 

"  '  Why,  of  course  you  can.  Come  right  in!  Women? — 
why,  women  ? — out  this  time  o'  night  ?  That's  too  bad.  Mary  ! 
Mary,  I  say !  " 

By  this  time  his  good  wife  Mary  came  forth,  the  smiles 
endeavoring  to  chase  the  sleepiness  off  from  her  face,  as  she  was 
tying  a  string  here,  or  buttoning  there,  or  hooking  up  her  dress 
behind. 

"Seems  to  me  your  abed  early,  uncle,  aren't  ye?"  said 
Hiram. 

"  Wal — pretty.  But  we  go  to  bed  early ;  we  get  up  early, 
too." 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  469 

"  Liked  to  have  got  up  tbis  time  'fore  you  got  to  bed,"  said 
Hiram,  winking. 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,"  said  tbe  honest  old  farmer,  with  an  unmean- 
ing laugh. 

"  Don't  you  know  tbe  army's  all  round  you  ? " 

"  Yes;  but  they  don't  touch  nutbin'.  They're  welcome  to't  if 
they  do." 

"  How  far  is  it  to  town  ? " 

"  Wal — 'bout  three  miles ;  three  and  a  half— say  four  miles. 
Depends  a  little  on  which  way  you  go." 

After  Hiram  had  seen  to  the  horses,  he  followed  the  sounds, 
and  soon  came  upon  the  wagon  trains  parked  for  the  night.  The 
rumbling  of  artillery  still  was  heard  in  the  roads  near  by.  Ee- 
serve  artillery  and  ammunition  trains  had  turned  into  fields  on 
either  side  of  the  road.  Soldiers  were  still  crowding  onward. 
They  moved  silently,  as  men  who  were  tired  with  long  and  rapid 
marching. 

He  came  across  a  part  of  the  cavalry  that  had  that  morning 
been  engaged,  and  picked  up  some  scraps  of  the  fight  as  they  had 
seen  it.  He  inquired  for  the  hospitals,  toward  which,  in  the  morn- 
ing, he  was  to  go.  An  officer,  with  his  head  bandaged,  gave  him 
the  information. 

Buford's  Cavalry  and  "Wadsworth's  Division  of  Reynolds'  corps 
had  held  the  heads  of  Hill  and  Longstreet's  corps,  coming  from 
Chambersburgh,  in  check,  and  gained  some  advantage.  But  about 
noon  Ewell's  corps  coming  in  on  the  Union  right,  brought  great 
disaster  and  even  rout  upon  them.  The  whole  left  wing  had 
barely  saved  itself,  but  now  was  holding  the  high  ground  south 
and  east  of  Gettysburg.  This  was  the  first  day's  fight.  Hiram 
returned  to  the  house,  and  after  a  generous  supper  the  party  were 
glad  to  retire.  The  day  had  been  fatiguing  enough.  The  morrow 
would  try  them  yet  more. 


CHAPTER   LI. 

GETTYSBURG. 

Long  before  sunrise  on  the  Wednesday  morning  of  the  second 
of  July,  our  party  were  astir.  Early  as  they  were,  the  good  house- 
Tfife  was  before  them,  and  a  bountiful  breakfast  awaited  them. 
After  the  farmer's  wife  had  learned  from  Agate  the  business  which 
took  such  beautiful  ladies,  as  Rose  and  Alice  seemed  to  her  eyes, 
to  the  battle-field,  she  could  not  do  enough  for  them ;  and  as  they 
parted  from  her,  the  good  old  farmer  said  to  them : 

"  We  live  some  ways  from  Gettysburg ;  but  if  any  of  your 
friends  are  wounded,  or  you  want  to  send  any  body  else  here,  it's 
a  quiet  place,  and  we've  got  enough,  and  we'll  take  the  best  care 
we  can  of  them.  So,  remember,  if  you  can't  do  any  better,  won't 
you?" 

Thanking  them  heartily  for  then-  kindness,  which  was  in  mark- 
ed contrast  with  the  brutal  demeanor  of  the  Dutch  farmers  around 
Gettysburg  on  those  awful  days,  they  were  leaving,  when,  having 
talked  a  moment  with  his  wife,  he  came  back  and  said: 

"  I  reckon  I'd  better  go  'long  with  you  a  spell.  I  know  some 
crooks  and  turns  that  may  better  your  road.  By  what  my  men 
say,  the  main  roads  have  been  full  all  night,  and  soldiers  are  still 
crowdin'  up  to  the  front.  I  expect  there  will  be  powerful  fightin' 
to-day,  and  I'll  go  up.  Maybe  I  can  help  the  wounded  folks,  if 
I  don't  fight  myself.     That  ain't  my  trade." 

Sure  enough,  the  roads  were  blocked ;  but  their  honest  farmer 
friend,  by  lanes,  and  through  cart  roads  in  the  wood,  and  by 
crossing  sown  fields,  brought  them,  at  last,  to  the  rear  of  that  long 
line  of  rocky  hills,  whose  crest  and  westward  slope  was  already 
crowded  with  soldiers. 

[N'ot  a  syllable  of  disrespect  did  they  receive  from  soldiers  or 
camp  followers.  In  many  instances  cheers  were  raised  for  them, 
and  "  God  bless  you  "  was  showered  upon  them  by  regiments  and 
brigades  who  had  seen  them  on  other  battle-fields.  Indeed,  there 
were  few  regiments  in  the  army  of  the  Potomac  where  Agate  Bis- 
sell's  name  was  not  known  and  honored.     At  certain  points,  where 


Village  Life  in  New  Englaiid.  471 

bodies  of  soldiers  were  at  rest,  the  men  flocked  around  them,  and 
shook  hands  with  them  as  old  friends. 

"  What's  all  that  ?  "  said  a  soldier  of  the  —  Pennsylvania  to  one 
of  his  comrades,  who  saw  the  stir  and  heard  some  cheei'ing  around 
their  carriage. 

"What  is  it?  Why,  it's  the  old  one  with  her  two  doves. 
There  ain't  many  boys  in  this  regiment  that  don't  know  Mother 
Bissell  and  the  Eose  of  Norwood !  " 

With  that  a  bright,  lithe  young  fellow  sprung  toward  the  party 
with  all  the  eagerness  of  a  child.  But,  as  he  came  up  and  was 
not  recognized,  he  almost  sulked  like  a  pouting  boy : 

"Why,  don't  you  know  me,  Aunty  Bissell?  I'm  your 
Willie?" 

Agate  turned  upon  him  a  quick  look. 

"  Take  off  your  cap !  Why,  Willie  Woolsy!  I  never  should 
have  known  you  I  " 

And  then,  patting  his  head  and  smiling  proudly  on  him,  she 
said: 

"  Why,  Willie,  how  you  have  improved !  how  fat  and  rosy 
you  are  !  •  I  never  should  imagine  that  you  were  that  poor,  pale 
boy  that  I  snatched  from  the  very  hands  of  death,  I  do  believe !  " 

And  so,  one  by  one,  scores  of  men  came  in  for  a  word,  whom 
these  women  had  succored  on  the  battle-field,  or  nursed  in  the 
hospitals,  or  transported  on  steamers  on  the  Potomac  to  Washing- 
ton, or  fed  and  clothed  at  various  times  and  different  places.  This 
did  not  seem  like  the  greetings  of  a  field  of  carnage ;  it  was  more 
like  a  home-greeting. 

The  forenoon  wore  rapidly  away.  The  hospital  camps  were 
selected.  The  Sanitary  Commission  had  been  able  to  secure  no 
transportation  on  the  railroad ;  and  fortunate  it  was  that — thanks 
to  Hiram  Beers'  enterprise — so  many  wagons  had  been  got  through 
and  so  large  a  store  of  articles  was  on  hand. 

All  through  the  forenoon,  the  distant  sound  of  skirmish-firing 
was  faintly  heard.  It  rose  and  rippled  on  the  air,  and  died  away. 
Again,  from  another  quarter,  it  pattered  for  a  half  hour,  and 
gradually  died  out  like  an  expiring  drum-beat.  Noon  came ;  and 
no  battle.  All  was  suspense.  No  one  that  they  could  reach  could 
give  the  information.  Would  Lee  retreat  ?  or  was  not  Heade  will- 
ing to  give  battle  ? 
21 


472  Norwood ;  or. 

The  afternoon  wore  on.  The  -virounded  of  the  day  before  were 
in  Gettysburg  or  beyond,  or,  if  brought  behind  the  Northern  lines, 
it  was  three  miles  to  the  north  of  the  position  chosen  by  tlie  Com- 
mission for  the  first  station. 

It  was  after  two  o'clock.  They  were  resting.  Suddenly  the 
great  hulking  body  of  Pete  Sawmill  rose  up  before  them ;  and 
Pete,  gurgling  and  laughing,  seemed  overjoyed  to  see  his  old 
friends. 

"Well  done!  as  sure  as  soot,"  said  Agate,  "here's  our  Pete! 
I'm  as  glad  to  see  your  homely  black  face,  Pete,  as  if  you  was  as 
white  as  snow !  " 

Pete  reached  out  his  great  hand,  to  each  of  them,  giving  to  each 
of  them  in  turn  one  down  motion  that  seemed  likely  to  take  their 
afms  out  of  the  socket,  and  giggling  and  laughing,  in  a  way  more 
silly  than  usual.  He  sidled  up  to  Eose,  with  the  most  foolish  look 
of  affection,  and  began  to  move  his  hands  in  the  air,  as  if  he  was 
taking  up  a  child,  or  patting  and  playing  with  some  invisible  dog. 

"  Why,  you  poor  old  soul,"  said  Agate,  "  we  are  all  as  glad  to 
see  you,  Pete,  as  if  you  belonged  to  us." 

"  He,  he,  he !  I  guess  I  do.  I  don  t  b'long  to  nobody  else,  ex- 
cept the  gin'ral." 

"  Where  is  Barton  ? "  said  Alice  and  Eose  almost  in  the  same 
breath. 

"  You  see  them  woody  hummocks  yonder  ? " 

"Tes." 

"  Well,  the  gineral  he's  along  beyond  them,  furder  up,  up  to- 
ward that  way,  and  a  leetle  over." 

This  very  luminous  description  was  given  with  a  serious, 
solemn  air,  for  Pete's  heart  in  every  battle  was  much  moved  at 
the  danger  into  which  Barton  Cathcart  would  throw  himself. 

"  He's  allers  runnin'  to  find  it  and  fetch  it.  He  might  jest  as 
well  wait.  Ye  see,  danger  will  come  itself  when  they're  fightin' 
such  allfired  battles." 

"  Pete,"  said  Eose,  "  do  you  think  we  could  see  Barton's  posi- 
tion if  we  were  to  go  on  to  that  hill  ?  " 

"  Sartain ;  I'll  take  you."  Pete  seemed  as  if  he  were  literally 
about  to  take  Eose  as  in  the  old  days,  when  she  rode  upon  his 
shoulder. 

Kose  laughed  and  dashed  past  him  nimbly,  on  her  way  to  the 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  473 

edge  of  Little  Round  Top.  As  she  ascended  the  ridge  the  scene 
began  to  open  upon  her. 

On  reaching  the  summit,  the  view  was  obstructed  by  the  fringe 
of  woods  through  which  the  road  passed.  But  by  climbing  a 
little  to  the  south  of  the  road,  Eose  obtained  a  clear  view  of  the 
ridge  on  whose  slopes  lay  the  Xorthern  army,  extending  from 
where  she  stood  two  miles  north  toward  Gettysburg,  which, 
from  this  point,  was  tucked  up  so  close  to  the  northern  head 
of  the  ridge  that  only  the  western  skirts  of  the  village  could  be 
seen,  fringing  out  into  the  valley.  A  mile  and  more  across  from 
where  she  stood  looking  west,  was  a  range  of  low  and  rounded 
hills,  forest-clad  in  spots,  or  dotted  with  orchards.  On  the  south- 
ern half  of  the  line  they  were  so  carved  out  by  the  wear  of  wa- 
ters for  ages,  that  they  seemed  like  huge  beads  half  buried  in  the 
ground ;  but  further  north,  and  over  against  Gettysburg,  the 
terrace  was  less  scarped  and  ran  with  an  easier  slope.  Above  and 
beyond  these  hills,  to  the  westward,  rose  others,  and  wide  strips 
of  forest,  and  ten  miles  away  the  blue  mass  of  the  South  Moun- 
tains banked  up  against  the  horizon. 

Between  the  two  low-lying  ridges  on  which  the  armies  lay 
was  a  mile-wide  valley,  its  southern  half  much  filled  up  with  roll- 
ing hills,  and  cut  into  with  dells  and  tangles  of  wood  and  rock. 
The  upper  half,  or  that  nearest  Gettysburg,  was  scooped  out  and 
smoother.  Along  the  line  of  swells  between  these  two  sorts  of  valley 
had  been  placed  the  left  wing  of  Meade's  army,  forming  an  angle  of 
about  45  degrees  with  the  ridge  on  which  the  rest  of  the  army  lay. 

To  crush  this  leg  thrust  out  from  the  body,  as  it  were,  and  to 
seize  the  lower  part  of  the  ridge  which  the  left  should  have  occu- 
pied, was  Lee's  whole  aim  in  the  second  day's  battle.  For  four 
hours  the  fight  here  raged  with  excessive  violence.  The  best 
troops  of  both  armies  were  in  the  struggle.  Neither  before  or 
since  has  there  been  more  thorough  fighting,  of  all  arms,  with 
heroic  tenacity  and  an  indomitable  will  that  did  not  know  how  to 
let  go.  And  when  darkness  ended  the  conflict,  the  Northern  troops, 
though  on  the  whole  worsted,  had  been  only  pushed  back  to  their 
true  position  along  the  ridge,  with  the  natural  fortresses  of  Great 
Round  Top  and  Little  Round  Top  inexpugnably  guarding  the  left 
of  their  line.     But  this  is  in  anticipation. 

Pete  had  followed  Rose  with  more  than  usual  gravity.     He 


474  Norwood ;  oi\ 

seemed  like  an  uneasy  hound  that  smells  something  in  the  dis- 
tance that  disquiets  him.  It  is  true  that  Pete  had  no  conception 
of  the  construction  of  an  army,  nor  is  it  probahle  that  he  could 
have  been  made  to  understand  strategy,  or  tactics,  in  any  proper 
and  scientific  way  of  stating  them.  But  Pete  was  an  innate  hun- 
ter. He  had  all  the  intuitions  and  inspirations,  which  belong  to 
the  venatorial  art.  In  their  ground  forms  these  are  not  far  from 
the  science  of  warfare. 

What  are  two  armies  but  two  hug'e  animals  that  are  hunting 
each  other  ? — each,  concealing  its  own  movements  and  spying  out 
the  other's — creeping,  watching,  feigning,  waiting  for  some  un- 
guarded moment,  or  indefensible  posture,  to  spring  with  concen- 
trated strength  and  loud  roar  upon  the  other !  In  a  vague  and 
rude  way  Pete  felt  some  such  battle  instinct.  He  watched  the  hills 
opposite. 

"There  they  are!" 

"Who?" 

"  Why  the  Eebs — don't  you  see  'em  ?  " 

'•'  Where  do  you  mean?  "  said  Eose,  shading  her  eyes  with  her 
hand. 

"  Eight  over  in  the  edge  of  them  woods — don't  you  see  the 
light  flash  ?  That's  the  sun  shinin'  on  their  guns.  There  'tis  ag'in ! 
Them  woods  is  jest  full.  Don't  you  see,  clear  away  there,  on  the  left 
— them  lines  like  ?  that's  them  too.     I  don't  like  it." 

"  Well,  Pete,  are  not  our  soldiers  there  too  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  see?  there's  our  boys  right  across  yonder.     Them 

d rebels!"  said  Pete,  waxing  irreverently  warm,  "will  be 

creepin'  round  behind 'em.     I  don't  like  it !  I  don't  like  it !  " 

And  then  Pete,  uneasily,  like  a  hound,  again  changed  his  posi- 
tion, and,  pointing  his  muzzle  out  toward  the  scene  of  impending 
conflict,  looked  intently  upon  the  fields. 

"  Pete,  what  ought  they  to  do  ?  "  said  Eose  innocently,  to  her 
humble  companion,  and  with  as  much  faith  in  his  judgment  as  if 
ho  were  some  black  Napoleon. 

"  I  dun  know.     I  expect  they  better  come  back  here." 

The  scuds  of  white  cloud  that  held  their  indolent  course 
through  the  air  early  in  the  morning  were  now  all  gone  away,  and 
had  left  the  heavens  imscarred  and  unfurrowed.  The  sun  now, 
half  way  down  from  the  meridian,  shot  back  floods  of  light  along 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  475 

the  path  it  had  just  travelled,  but  could  not  change  its  blue.  Far 
up,  the  vault  was  paled  a  little,  but  blue  it  vras — clear,  tender  blue. 
But,  nearer  the  ground  and  along  the  horizon,  the  ruddy  sunlight 
flooded  all  things  with  a  peculiar  golden  hue.  The  air  seemed  rich, 
the  earth  dreamy,  and  the  landscnpe  that  lay  before  Rose's  eye  seemed 
to  her  imagination  as  if  in  a  tranquil  meditation.  The  distant  jets 
of  white  smoke,  the  faint  reports  of  sharpshooters'  rifles,  or  occa- 
sional ripples  of  skirmishers'  firing  seemed  only  like  the  plashing 
of  a  tranquil  sea  upon  the  shore — sound  just  enough  to  make  still- 
ness palpable.  Every  thing  conspired  to  fill  Rose  with  imagina- 
tions contrasting  with  the  impending  scenes.  A  wood-thrush  not 
far  from  her,  in  a  solitary  clump  of  trees,  was  singing  in  a  plain- 
tive way  to  an  answering  thrush  beyond.  An  oriole  flew  into  a 
near  tree,  and  sang  shrill  as  a  clarionet.  Flowers  were  thick 
among  the  stones.  A  bush  of  sassafras  stood  just  at  her  hand,  and 
she  was  almost  unconsciously  breaking  off  the  tender  and  fragrant 
tips  to  refresh  her  mouth. 

Rose  had  risen  into  that  state  of  imagination  in  which  outward 
things  begin  to  take  on  the  colors  of  one's  own  thoughts,  and  to 
stand  dressed  in  human  feelings.  The  whole  heavens  above  her 
head  said  to  her,  "There  is  no  war  in  me!"  the  whole  valley 
answered,  "It  is  peace  with  me!  "  the  woods  about  her — the 
fragrant  smell  of  pine  and  spicy  bushes, — the  birds  singing,  and 
squirrels  running  nimbly  across  her  path  or  jerking  their  tails  on 
the  safe  edges  of  rocks, — all  were  so  many  tokens  of  peace  ! 

Suddenly,  right  over  against  her,  came  a  peal  of  thunder !  Up 
rose  a  curling  wreath  of  smoke.  Quickly  through  it  flashed  fierce 
forks  of  flame ;  loud  and  earth-shaking  roars  came  hke  the  rolls 
of  surf  upon  the  shore,  in  quick  succession.  The  battle  had  be- 
gun !  It  opened  with  no  spattering  shots,  bringing  out  gradually 
growing  volleys.  It  struck  a  deep  note  of  thunder  at  first,  and 
then  kept  to  that  awful  pitch  through  four  murderous  hours ! 

Rose  was  fixed  and  fascinated.  She  could  not  withdraw  her 
eyes  from  that  which  she  dreaded  to  see.  Lines  of  men  came  forth 
from  the  woods.  They  were  met  with  sheeted  flame,  and  with- 
ered and  shrunk  back.  They  were  but  the  flrst  line.  Right  on, 
behind  them,  came  Longstreet's  masses,  that  were  not  to  be 
daunted — fire-proved,  annealed  in  scores  of  battles !  Little  could 
Rose  see  but  the  general  aspect.     The  loyal  lines  hore  up  stoutly 


476  Norwood ;  or, 

and  well.  They  were  pushed  and  bent ;  but,  like  a  trusty  bow, 
sprung  back  again.  The  conflict  became  many-sided.  Far  on- 
ward, to  the  left  of  the  Union  lines,  emerged  the  Confederate  troops. 
iN'ew  batteries  seemed  to  spring  up  every  where ;  and  battle,  like 
forks  of  flame  in  a  burning  town,  kindling  wherever  a  spark  fell, 
flashed  ^orth,  from  point  to  point,  on  every  swell  of  land — in  the 
groves — through  wheat  fields — but,  more  than  all,  right  over  against 
her,  where  the  heaven  was  ablaze  with  artillery,  and  irresistible 
masses  of  Confederate  soldiers  broke  down  Sickles'  centre  and  drove 
back  his  men  from  Sherfy's  peach-orchard.  For  an  hour,  which 
seemed  an  age,  she  gazed.  Troops  were  hastening  from  Hancock 
and  from  Slocum,  drawn  from  the  centre  and  right,  to  brace  up 
the  broken  lines.  The  fight  was  creeping  up  from  below  to  the 
very  hill  where  she  stood. 

A  division  of  Northern  troops  was  passing  the  very  road  on 
which  she  had  come.  Suddenly  a  brigade  was  swung  oflp  from  it, 
and  began  to  ascend  Little  Eound  Top.  She  hasted  down.  It 
was  a  new  sight  that  she  had  beheld. 

She  was  used  to  every  form  of  wounds  in  men  brought  off  from 
the  field.  She  had  even  been  along  the  edge  of  fights,  but  it  was 
when  the  combats  raged  in  muffling  woods  and  thickets.  She  had 
never  stood  where  the  whole  field  lay  open,  where  the  two  armies 
stretched  out  their  masses  in  visible  opposition  and  the  whole  work 
of  destruction  could  be  seen.  She  turned  away,  and  hastened  by 
the  road  which,  running  from  the  very  ground  of  conflict,  hugged 
Little  Round  Top  where  she  had  been  standing  ;  and  moved  toward 
the  hospital  ground  of  the  corps.  "Within  a  half  hour,  men  began 
to  come  over  the  ridge  wounded,  but  yet  able  to  get  out  of  the  bat- 
tle.    Their  numbers  increased. 

Who  shall  describe  the  roar  of  battle  ?  If  one  will  know  the 
mechanism  and  anatomy  of  battle,  let  him  read  our  American  Xa- 
pier.*  If  he  would  see  a  gorgeous  picture  of  the  out-playing  of 
this  anatomy,  the  army  charge,  the  tough  and  tugging  fight,  the 
swirl  and  hurricane,  let  him  read  the  brilliant  picture-writing  of 
the  military  Dore  of  America. t  But  who  shall  describe  the  shadow 
of  the  battle  ?  "Who  shall  picture  the  battle  of  the  hospital  ?  "Who 
shall  make  into  history  what  passes  before  the  nurses  and  surgeons  ? 

♦  'William  Swinton.  t  Gr.  A.  Tovmsend. 


Village  Life  in  Neiv  England.  477 

The  place  chosen  for  the  hospital  proved  to  be  in  the  line  of 
fire,  and  shot  and  shell  soon  came  down  into  the  very  tents,  and 
men  who  had  escaped  the  battle  and  cleared  its  skirts  were  reached 
and  slain  under  the  surgeon's  hands.  Another  place  was  chosen. 
But  scarcely  had  the  surgeon's  tables  been  set  before  whistling  balls 
drove  them  thence.  A  third  place,  nearly  astride  of  Eock  Creek, 
was  finally  established.  The  wounded  men  were  now  pouring  in 
in  fearful  numbers.  Long  lines  of  men  lying  on  the  ground  cov- 
ered the  space.  No  tents  were  spread.  The  field  hospital  was 
literally  but  a  field.  A  thousand  men  in  less  than  an  hour  and  a 
half!  and  more  streaming  in  from  every  direction. 
.  One  of  the  chief  needs  of  wounded  men  is  drink  and  sustenance. 
Along  the  roads  by  which  they  came  in,  the  Commission  had  sta- 
tioned women  and  men  to  supply  to  the  fainting  and  overspent,  as 
they  passed,  both  nourishment  and  stimulants.  Rose  suggested  to 
Agate  that  the  point  which  she  had  that  afternoon  visited  would 
be  well  situated  for  a  station.  Fires  were  built,  hot  tea  and  cofi:ee 
were  kept  in  full  supply,  milk  punch,  wines,  and  other  stimulants 
were  at  hand.  Many  who  had  climbed  thus  far,  but  were  exhausted, 
were  here  revived  by  welcome  nourishment  and  shuflSed  over  the 
hill  to  the  hospital  fields. 

IsTo  sooner  had  Eose  found  some  active  work  to  do  than  all  her 
fancies  fled,  and  she  settled  back  into  a  stern,  practical  woman, 
who  could  look  upon  wounds,  wash  and  cleanse  them,  bind  them 
up,  cheer  the  desperately  wounded  and  suffering.  She  had  that 
happiest  of  constitutions,  one  which  generated  an  endless  supply  of 
nervous  force.  "With  danger  she  grew  calm,  and  her  spirits  rose 
with  every  perilous  exigency.  And  after  days  and  nights  of  almost 
continual  service,  Eose's  body,  fed  by  some  inward  supply,  seemed 
as  fresh  and  nimble  as  at  the  beginning. 

"  How  can  you  endure  so  much  and  hold  out  so  long? "  was 
often  asked. 

But  she  could  never  reply,  except  to  say : 
"  God  gives  me  strength  according  to  my  need." 
"W^hile  Eose  was  engrossed  in  supplying  the  suffering,  Hiram 
appeared  from  over  the  hill  with  the  ambulance  corps,  aiding  the 
wounded,  but  chiefly  engaged  in  scolding  Alice.  Eose  had,  for  an 
bour  or  two,  missed  her,  and  supposed  that  she  had  gone  back  over 
•;he  hill  toward  the  corps  hospital.    Instead  of  that,  Alice  had 


478  Norwood ;  or, 

quietly  venlnred  forward.  Pete  carried  her  effects,  and  acted  as 
her  body-guard ;  and,  lured  by  some  fascination,  Alice  had  ven- 
tured down  almost  upon  the  edge  of  battle — outrunning,  at  last, 
theboldest  of  the  ambulance  corps,  encouraging  the  stretcher-bearers 
to  come  on ;  for,  so  terrible  had  been  the  fire  here  that  the  men 
whose  duty  it  was  to  succor  and  bear  away  the  wounded,  shrank 
from  the  spot.  All  the  stores  which  Pete  could  carry  were  soon 
consumed,  Alice  was  urging  the  attendants  to  more  venturesome- 
ness,  when  the  cloud  of  battle,  which  had  bent  and  moved  outward, 
suddenly  came  raining  back.  A  large  body  of  Virginia  troops  were 
pressing  back  our  lines.  Just  then,  speeding  to  the  succor  of  our 
men,  came  a  division  of  the  Second  Corps.  It  was  at  the  moment 
of  onset  that  Alice  liked  to  have  been  swept  into  the  battle,  whose 
bloody  spray  dashed  up  to  her  very  feet.  Just  then  some  one 
snatched  her  by  the  arm  and  violently  dragged  her  back. 

'•  What  on  airth  ails  ye  ?  Do  you  iLant  to  be  killed?  What 
sort  of  a  place  do  you  call  this  for  a  handsome  woman  ?  Come 
out  o'  this  !  Come,  come,  I  say  !  If  this  ain't  craziness !  Xever 
mind,  I  swow  you're  a  brave  girl!  By  jimminy,  I  never  thought 
ye  had  so  much  in  you  !  " 

Just  then  the  spiteful  whirl  of  bullets  over  their  heads  renewed 
Hiram's  alarm. 

"For  God's  sake,  duck! — duck  your  head! — get  in  behind 
here !  What  a  fool  you  be.  iN'o  need  on't.  What  business  had 
you  out  there  ?  " 

'*  What  business  had  the  soldiers  there,  Hiram  ? "  said  Alice, 
with  an  intense  solemnity. 

"  It's  their  business  to  fight ;  that's  their  place." 

"  It's  my  business  to  relieve  the  wounded  men  who  have  been 
fighting  for  you  and  for  me." 

"  Well,  you  might  wait  till  the  men  fetched  'em  out." 

"  Hiram,  the  ambulance  men  shrunk;  their  very  officers  hid. 
1  saw  them  run  away.  If  they  had  had  a  brother  there,  and— 
and — a  brother  there — they  would  have  been  bolder." 

As  soon  as  the  danger  lulled,  Hiram  could  not  refuse  his  ad- 
miration; but  the  moment  shot  began  to  whiz  and  swirl  about 
her,  he  fell  to  scolding  Alice  again  : 

"You  are  a  brave  girl,  anyhow.  You  ought  to  have  been 
a  soldier.      I'm  proud  of  your  pluck.      Gosh !    look  out — there 


Village  Life  hi  New  England.  479 

come  shells  and  shot — a  pretty  place  for  a  woman !  You  want 
a  gardeen  over  yon.  I  wonder  you'd  be  such  a  fool.  There, 
then,  now  we're  kmd  o'  behind  this  swell  they  won't  hit  us.  I 
vow,  Alice,  but  you've  arnt  an  epilet  to-day." 

TThen  Alice  saw  Rose,  she  ran  to  her  with  a  piercing  cry: 

"  Oh,  oh,  oh,  Rose  !  I  have  seen  him.    I  have  seen !  " 

"Who?  Barton?" 

"Yes;  but  not  him.  I've  seen  Hey  wood.  He  was  rushing 
in  at  the  head  of  his  men  just  as  Barton  came  up.  Oh,  it  is 
dreadful  that  he  is  fighting  on  the  rebel  side!  But,  oh,  how 
noble  he  looked !  In  that  awful  whirlpool  of  war  he  looked  as 
beautiful  as  when  he  sat  in  our  blue-room !  " 

"But  did  you  see  Barton?"  said  Rose,  almost  in  a  terror. 
"Was  he  there?" 

"Yes — he  was  rushing  right  against  them.  There  was  an 
awful  crash.     Oh,  God!  I  hope  Heywood  is  safe." 

Rose,  trembling,  could  scarcely  sustain  herself;  but  in  a 
moment  her  courage  came  again. 

"Alice,  think  only  of  Barton.  He  is  your  brother!  May 
God  preserve  those  who  are  defending  the  right,  and  send  speedy 
overthrow  to  those  who  would  destroy  their  Government !  " 

Alice  only  shuddered,  but  made  no  reply. 

The  sun  went  down,  but  still  the  battle  raged  in  the  twi- 
light. The  left  of  the  Union  army,  much  twisted  and  bruised, 
had  been  shoved  back  and  sadly  rent,  but,  on  the  whole,  had 
secured  a  better  ground  than  it  Jiad  lost ;  and  at  eight  o'clock 
the  sounds  of  battle  died  away  on  this  part  of  the  field ;  though 
far  away,  to  the  Union  right,  for  a  half  hour  longer  the  con- 
flict sounded  on.  But  by  nine  o'clock  there  was  silence.  Yes, 
with  more  than  four  thousand  men  a  silence  which  should  not 
be  broken  till  the  last  trump  ! 

In  the  two  days,  the  Union  army  had  lost,  in  killed,  wounded, 
and  missing,  nearly  twenty  thousand  men.  An  equal  loss,  doubt- 
less, the  enemy  had  sustained.  And  the  third  great  day  was  yet 
to  come. 

That  night,  within  a  circle  of  five  miles  diameter  there  were 

from  both  armies  together  between  twenty  and  thirty  thousand 

wounded  men !      All  farm-houses  and  barns  were  filled.     Every 

sheltered  field  was   covered  with   sufferers.      Hospital   touched 

21* 


480  Norwood ;  or, 

hospital.  If  one  had  come  from  the  north  behind  Round  Top,  the 
first  field  hospital  would  have  seemed  to  contain  the  wounded  of 
the  whole  battle ;  but  at  ever j  mile,  round  toward  Gettysburg, 
he  would  meet  another,  and  another,  until  he  would  wonder  what 
could  be  left  of  the  fighting  army  whicli  had  shaken  off  from  its 
boughs  such  another  army  of  withered  men !  And  if  the  circuit 
were  continued,  Gettysburg  was  full;  and,  moving  over  upon 
the  western  ridges,  where  the  Confederate  army  lay,  the  same 
mighty  trail  of  blood  held  on  its  way.  And  thus  some  thirty 
thousand  men,  welded  together  by  blood,  twined  around  the  great 
central  armies  like  a  gory  belt ! 

The  fighting  was  ended.  The  great  toil  of  mercy  was  but  just 
begun.  All  night  long,  men  were  brought  in.  Parties  scoured 
the  fields  hunting  for  the  wounded.  Many  had  crept  out  of  the 
storm  of  battle  and  hidden  under  fences,  or  among  rocks,  or  in 
thickets,  and,  their  strength  failing,  they  could  neither  come  forth, 
or  make  known  their  presence.  Hundreds  died  whom  prompt 
succor  might  have  saved.  "When  the  moon  rose  and  threw  its 
faint  light  through  the  moving  scuds  of  cloud,  there  might  have 
been  seen  many  a  stalwart  fellow  fast  fainting  unto  death.  Some 
clasped  in  their  hands  the  photograph  of  wife  and  children,  some 
of  lover ;  and  they  were  found  dead  in  the  morning,  the  last  smile 
yet  lingering  on  their  manly  features. 

The  hospitals  enlarged  their  bounds  through  all  the  adjacent 
fields.  The  barns  in  the  neighborhood  had  been  taxed  for  straw ; 
but  he  was  fortunate  who  had  ifnder  him  any  thing  but  the  fresh 
grass  half  covered  with  a  blanket. 

Hundreds  of  wounded  rebels  had  been  captured,  and  lay  among 
our  men,  subject  to  the  same  kindness.  In  the  hospital  there  was 
peace.    Wounds  were  counted  as  amicable  settlements. 

The  South,  impulsive  and  unrestrained  in  the  expression  of 
feeling,  the  iN'orth,  grave  and  self-contained,  more  apt  to  repress 
than  to  show  feeling — both  carried  into  battle  and  into  the  hos- 
pital their  peculiarities.  The  Southern  brigades,  impetuous  and 
fiery,  charged  yelling  and  noisy.  The  ITorthern  men,  sometimes 
hurrahing,  yet  oftener  sternly  silent,  put  their  feelings  into 
blows. 

The  Rebel  wounded  groaned  and  cried  out.  The  surgeon's 
knife  let  loose  their  tongues.      The  Northern  wounded  lay  quiet, 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  481 

Bnppressed  the  groans,  fighting  their  pains  as  stubbornly  and 
Bilently  as  they  had  fought  the  rebels. 

Yet  it  vras  not  all  sad  in  the  field  hospitals.  The  slightly 
wounded  kept  up  excellent  spirits.  After  their  hurts  were  dress- 
ed, and  they  were  washed  and  refreshed  with  food  and  cordials, 
they  became  cheerful  and  chatty.  One  might  have  heard  in  the 
early  night  hundreds  of  narratives  which  they  were  recounting  to 
each  other,  some  sad  and  some  grotesque,  and  some  even  gay. 

Poor  Agate  for  once  quite  lost  her  self-possession,  and  burst 
into  tears  like  a  child,  when,  towards  sundown,  an  ambulance 
brought  in  that  fair  Willie,  who  that  morning  had  so  joyously 
greeted  her.  A  ball  cutting  across  his  face,  had  put  out  both  his 
eyes.  But  he  was  going  on  in  a  path  where  one  needs  no  eye- 
sight ! 

"  Aunty  Bissell — ii  this  yo?^ .?  "  he  said,  in  a  gentle,  plaintive 
voice. 

"Yes,  "Willie,  it  is.  God  bless  you,  poor  child;"  and,  as 
Agate  stooped  to  kiss  his  pale  face,  her  tears  dropped  upon  his 
cheeks.    He  could  shed  no  more  tears. 

"  Oh,  don't  leave  rae !  Stay  with  me,  won't  you  ?  Do  take 
hold  of  my  hand.  Say  something  to  me.  I  shall  die !  Oh, 
mother,  mother,  mother !  Aunty,  don't  leave  me.  Do  say  some- 
thing to  me! " 

Agate  bowed  down  by  his  side,  and  while  the  cannon  were 
yet  sounding  in  the  distance,  and  the  air  filled  with  departing 
souls,  she  sent  up  a  fervent  prayey  for  the  lad. 

But  others  needed  care.  She  hurried  from  one  to  another, 
returning  often  to  speak  to  Willie,  finding  him  each  time  weaker, 
and  always  whispering  either  a  petition  or  his  mother's  name. 
At  the  very  last,  as  it  grew  dark,  his  mind  flickered  and  seemed 
working  at  some  childhood  remembrance. 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down,"  said  he,  in  a  whisper — "  now  I  lay  me — 
what?  mother?  now  I — now  I ." 

Then  for  a  little  while  he  only  whispered ;  and  when  Agate 
next  came  to  him,  all  his  battles  were  ended  in  an  eternal  vic- 
tory. 

Eose  was  struck  with  one  man's  experience.  A  bluff  and  brawny 
man  he  looked. 

"Wal,"  said  he  to  some  who  had  been  asking  him  about  the 


482  Norwood ;  or, 

conflict,  "I  remember  ■while  we  "was  in  Sharfj's  peach-orcliard, 
and  the  firin'  was  just  beginnin',  that  a  sparrow  was  singin'  in  a 
peach-tree.  E-r-rip  went  the  rifles.  That  shet  him  up.  But  he 
began  agin.  Wh — ang!  went  the  cannon,  and  for  about  five 
minutes  they  fired  and  he  fired,  they  fired  and  he  fired  back  again. 
But  I  b'lieve  at  last  they  got  the  upperhand  of  that  sparrow ! 
Queer,  wasn't  it?  I  don't  remember  nothin'  else — only  it  seems 
as  if  I  had  been  squirmin'  about  in  a  whirlwind  of  red-hot  rain 
for  about  a  couple  of  hours." 

Hiram  reappeared  after  an  hour's  absence,  about  ten  o'clock 
at  night.    He  had  been  hunting  for  Pete,  he  said. 

"  Tor  Pete?  "  said  Alice.    "  "Why  didn't  you  hunt  for  Barton  ?  " 

"  ThaVs  the  way  to  hunt  for  Barton !  If  any  body'd  know  where 
Barton  was,  Pete  would." 

"Well,  did  you  find  Pefe?  "  said  Alice. 

"Yes,  I  did." 

"Hiram,  why  don't  you  tell  me  if  you  saw  Barton? " 

"  Ck)s  you  didn't  ask  me,"  said  Hiram.  "  Of  course  I  saw  him. 
Do  yon  s'pose  I  should  have  been  grinnin'  about  here  if  Barton 
was  missin'  ? " 

"Has  he  escaped — and  not  been  hurt?  " 

"  Sound  as  a  nut — pretty  well  tired  though.  I  guess  he's  blue 
too.  Sent  his  love  to  you,  Alice,  and  good-bye  to  all  the  rest,  if 
he  never  sees  you  again ;  would  come  over,  but  has  jest  got  word 
that  he  may  have  to  move  over  to  the  right  wing  there  by  daylight 
to-morrow  morning,  to  drive  out  a  parcel  of  rebs  that's  crept  in 
unawares  like." 

"  Thank  God,  he  is  safe,"  said  Kose. 

Alice  seemed  lost  in  thought. 

Meanwhile,  though  greatly  tired  out,  Hiram  said  he  would  take 
a  little  turn  around  among  the  men — which  meant  to  keep  on  his 
feet  till  past  midnight,  in  various  helpful  offices.  It  was  about 
midnight  when  he  lay  down  near  a  fire,  around  which  sat  or  lay 
a  score  or  two  of  wounded  men.  He  heard  them  talking  of  their 
day's  work.    A  sergeant  in  the  14:6th  New  York  was  talking : 

"  I  had  'nuflf  on't  too.  'Twas  my  regiment  that  was  in  the  bri- 
gade that  charged  in  to  support  Sickles.  And  we  did  support  him 
too.  And  we  hadn't  more'n  time  to  turn  round  after  that  charge 
before  they  told  us  to  go  at  Little  Round  Top,  and  we  did  go  at  it, 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  483 

and  we  took  that  too.  Charged  bayonets  twice  within  fifteen 
minutes.  And  what  was  the  queerest  thing,  out  of  that  regiment 
of  800  men  we  didn't  lose  but  thirty-three  in  them  two  charges. 
But  most  o'them  was  ofiicers.  In  that  charge  up  Little  Round  Top 
there  happened  to  be  one  platoon  of  rebel  sharpshooters  in  the 
place,  and  jest  in  them  two  or  three  minits  they  picked  off  our 
colonel,  our  leftenant-colonel,  three  cap'ns — the  cap'n  o'  my  com- 
p'ny  'n  both  leftenants,  'n  I  do'  no  how  many  more.  I  found  my- 
self in  command  o'  that  comp'ny  pretty  sudden. 

"  Well,  after  the  hottest  o'  that  figlitin'  was  over,  I  lay  down 
behind  a  rock  and  went  to  sleep ;  told  my  second-sargeant  to  wake 
me  up  if  there  was  any  thing.  Well,  pretty  soon  somebody  came 
'n  waked  me  up,  'n  said  Gen.  Warren  wanted  to  see  me. 

"  You  see,  where  we  was  was  jest  before  brigade-headquarters ; 
and,  right  on  top  of  the  position,  there  was  a  great  big  high  rock 
that  had  a  view  all  over  the  whole  field.  'Way  down  in  front  o' 
that,  there  was  a  kind  of  a  valley  like,  all  full  o'  rough  ground. 
There  was  one  place  in  it  they  called  the  Devil's  Den.  'Twan't 
nothin'  but  rocks — a  reg'lar  nest  on  'em — big  boulders  standin'  up 
endways,  ledges,  and  all  sorts  o'  things.  N'ow  a  lot  o'  rebel  sharp- 
shooters they'd  got  into  them  rocks,  and  they  was  awaitin'.  There 
couldn't  a  hat  'a  ben  showed  on  top  o'  that  rock  on  Little  Round 
Top  'thout  it  had  a  ball  slap  through  it,  and  them  generals  they 
wanted  to  git  up  on  there  'n  reconnoitre. 

"  So  I  went  up  in  the  tent.  Warren  he  knowd  me ;  I'd  bin 
under  him  before,  in  the  old  Fifth  New  York.  And  there  was 
Gen.  Kilpatrick,  and  Gen.  Pleasonton,  and.  Gen.  This,  and  That, 
and  so  on.  So  Warren  he  says  to  me,  'Leftenant,  can't  you  take 
some  skirmishers,  and  go  down  in  there,  and  clean  out  them  sharp- 
shooters ? '  Well,  that  was  a  command,  you  know,  jest  as  much  as 
if  he'd  said  I  must  go  and  do  it.  So  I  said,  'Yes;  I  want  sixty 
men,  and  I  don't  want  nobody  but  volunteers  neither."'  So  he  said 
I  might  go  and  git  'em.  So  I  went  down  to  my  regiment,  'n  I 
picked  out  forty  old  Fifth  New  York  men — the  146th  was  a  new 
regiment,  'n  they'd  put  these  old  veterans  in  to  give  'em  a  mow- 
rail.  Then  I  went  to  another  regiment,  'n  got  twenty-five  more ; 
that  was  sixty-five,  all  told.  So  I  got  'em  all  ready,  and  I  arranged 
with  Warren  that  when  I'd  got  down  in  the  valley  and  got  things 
all  straight,  I'd  wave  a  handkerchief,  'n  then  they  could  git  up  on 


484  Nonoood ;  ofy 

the  rock.  Then  I  told  iny  men,  'Is'ovr,'  says  I,  'we  must  hreak 
down  tbis  slope  jest  like  dust  till  we  git  into  them  rocks  down 
there,  and  then  we  must  scatter  and  take  cover,  pretty  much  every 
man  for  himself.  But,  one  thing — don't  you  none  on  you  fire  till 
you  see  me  do  it.  I'm  agoin'  to  git  a  good  place,  and  blaze  away 
jest  as  fast  as  I  can,  so's  to  make  'em  think  there's  a  whole  party 
o'  men  jest  behind  that  one  rock  where  I  am.  Then  you  wait  for 
'em  to  reply.  There  ain't  but  about  twenty  on  'em,  all  down  in 
that  nest  o'  rocks  there  in  the  DevU's  Den.  "When  they  fire  at  me, 
you  watch  and  fire  at  the  place,  and  there'll  be  eight  or  ten  on  ye 
firin'  at  every  one  on  'em,  and  somebody  '11  hit  him.'  So  we  got 
all  ready,  and  away  we  went,  tearin'  down  the  hill  like  mad.  They 
giv'  us  a  volley  or  two  when  they  saw  us  a-comin',  and  picked  off 
about  a  dozen  killed  and  wounded ;  so  when  we  got  down  among 
them  ledges  and  boulders,  about  two  hundred  yards  away  from 
where  the  sharpshooters  was,  I  had  'bout  fifty-five  men.  So  I 
went  to  work  a-blazin'  away,  and  the  boys  they  got  down  behind 
the  stones,  and,  amongsl  us,  we  kep'  up  a  hell  of  a  fire ;  for  every 
one  o'  my  men  had  a  hundred  rounds  of  ammunition.  And  every 
once  in  a  while  we'd  see  one  o'  them  sharpshooters  jump  up  and 
fling  up  his  hands. 

"  Then  they  began  to  slacken  their  fire,  and  my  boys  had  been 
kinder  drawin'  up  towards  me ;  so  says  I,  '  JSTow,  boys,  we'll  make 
a  little  charge  over  in  there,  'n  see  if  we  can't  find  some  o'  them 
fellers.'  So  we  charged  over  in  there,  and  we  thought  we'd  got 
pretty  near  where  they  was,  and  we  couldn't  see  nothin'  on  'em. 
You  see,  'twas  all  full  o'-  nothin'  but  rocks,  and  they  was  hid.  So 
I  was  satisfied  that  we'd  pretty  much  silenced  their  fire  anyhow, 
and  so  I  out  with  my  handkerchief  and  waved  it,  and  the  officers 
they  hopt  up  on  the  rock.  So  the  rebels,  when  they  saw  that, 
they  got  mad,  and  they  went  to  firin'  agin,  and  we  began  too.  So 
there  was  a  feller  a  layin'  alongside  o'  me,  Sargeant  Weaver  his 
name  was,  and  he  see  a  place  where  one  o'  the  rebels  was  a  firin' 
out  of.  So  I  looked,  and  there  the  feller  had  built  up  a  little  place 
between  two  rocks  with  loose  stone,  and  he'd  put  a  big  rock  across 
on  top,  and  there  he  was,  a  firin'  through  a  porthole  at  us.  So 
Weaver  he  wanted  to  fire  at  him,  and  says  I,  go  ahead.  So  Weaver 
fired,  but  he  didn't  hit  him.  Well,  I  had  my  gun  all  ready,  and  I 
watched  close,  and  when  this  here  feller  drew  back  to  load  up 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  485 

again,  (here  the  speaker  imitated  the  movements  of  one  ramming 
ilown  a  bullet,)  I  could  jest  see  the  back  of  his  head  one  side  of 
<hat  are  rock.  So  I  let  him  have  it,  and  the  bullet  struck  him  right 
in  the  middle  of  his  neck,  right  here,  (touching  the  base  of  the 
skull  behind.)  I  should  think  he  jumped  up  in  the  air  about  four 
feet.  Well,  when  we  seen  that,  we  all  gave  a  hurraw,  and  we 
charged  right  over  in  there,  and  we  gobbled  up  every  one  o'  them 
fellers,  all  except  two. 

"TTell,  as  soon  as  the  rest  on  'em  saw  what  we  was  up  to,  a 
regiment  on  'em  came  down  to  try  and  git  them  sharpshooters 
back  agin.  So  then  our  regiment  had  to  come  down  in  bodily  to 
support  us.  Then  a  rebel  brigade  came  in,  and  then  our  brigade 
came  down  too,  and  we  drove  'em  back  after  a  little  while,  and 
advanced  our  line  the  whole  of  that  are  two  hundred  yards,  and 
kept  it  too. 

"  When  I  went  up  to  see  TTarren,  he  said  all  sorts  o'  things  to 
me,  and  promised  to  give  me  a  medal  and  a  commission,  and  all 
that.     But  I  don'  'spect  to  git  'em.     Folks  forgit  easy." 

By  four  o'clock  on  Friday  morning,  July  3,  the  sounds  of  battle 
were  heard  far  away  on  the  right  wing,  on  the  eastern  slopes  of 
Gulp's  Hill.  But  before  this,  before  the  birds  sang,  while  the  very 
twilight  hesitated  in  uncertainty,  Alice  was  up  and  out.  Nor  was 
it  long  before  the  ambulances  were  moving  to  explore  the  remot- 
est parts  of  the  battle-field.  Alice  sought  to  retrace  again  the  path 
of  her  yesterday's  excursion.  But  scarcely  could  she  recognize  a 
feature,  in  the  cold  gray  of  morning,  .of  that  scene  which  she  had 
seen  late  the  afternoon  in  the  lurid  light  of  the  sun  lying  low,  and 
in  the  smoke  and  wild  confusion  of  battle. 

She  was  alone.  She  carried,  besides  a  flask  and  roll  of  banda- 
ges, nothing.  Following  the  road,  over  the  northern  edge  of  Little 
Bound  Top,  down  into  the  dell  below,  then  inclining  to  the  left, 
she  began  to  recognize  the  place  where  she  had  seen  Barton  in  the 
very  thick  of  battle.  With  trembling  eagerness  she  looked  on 
every  hand.  The  wounded  had  mostly  been  removed.  Heaps  of 
dead  showed  where  the  weight  of  battle  had  fallen.  Suddenly, 
and  like  an  arrow  shot  from  a  bow,  she  sprang  from  the  path  to 
the  edge  of  a  low  forest  or  thicket,  where  an  oflicer,  half  reclining, 
half  sitting,  either  wasr  asleep,  or  was  dead.  It  was  Tom  Hey- 
wood. 


486  Norwood;  or, 

Alice  paused  at  a  few  steps ;  then,  venturing  nearer — pale,  Tery 
pale — spoke  as  if  she  would  waken  him  from  sleep. 

"  Mr.  Hey  wood  I     Mr.  Hey  wood !  " 

Timidly,  yet  eagerly,  she  came  close  to  him,  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  arm ;  it  fell  heavily  as  she  pressed  it.  She  touched  his  hand 
and  the  truth  flashed  upon  her, — he  was  dead  !  As  one  bewildered, 
and  even  yet  uncertain  but  that  he  slept,  she  gazed  upon  his  calm 
and  noble  face. 

" Speak  to  me !  Do  wake!  It  is  Alice — Alice  Cathcartl  Oh! 
Hey  wood,  I  would  speak  to  you  if  it  were  I  lying  so !  He  is  not 
dead !     It  cannot  be  death !  " 

Then  looking  long  and  wildly,  as  a  child  looks  shudderingly 
into  some  dark  room  at  night,  she  lowered  her  voice  and  said,  in  a 
hoarse  whisper : 

"  He  is  dead !     O  God,  take  me  I " 

Already  the  light  seemed  vanishing,  and  Alice  fell  fainting  upon 
Heywood's  breast.  At  last  she  had  found  upon  his  bosom  a  brief 
rest  of  love ! 

A  man  lying  in  the  edge  of  the  thicket  called  out  to  Hiram, 
who  soon  after  was  coming  that  way  : 

"  I  say  !     I  say,  stranger !  " 

"  WeU,  what's  up  ?  Where  are  ye  ?  Oh,  there  you  are.  Are 
you  hurt  badly  ?  " 

"  No  matter  'bout  me  jest  yet.  I  kin  wait.  But  I  reckon  some- 
body oughter  take  care  of  that  gal  yonder.  She's  got  a  fit  o'  faintin'. 
That  man  there  is  Col.  Heywood.  He  commanded  our  boys.  He 
was  shot  yisterday  about  the  time  I  was.  He  lived  an  hour  or  two, 
but  never  spoke." 

Hiram  needed  no  quickening  as  soon  as  he  saw  Alice.  Lifting 
her  tenderly  in  his  arms,  he  carried  her  back  to  the  edge  of  a  small 
stream  that  crossed  the  road  but  a  little  back,  and  then  he  bathed 
her  face  freely. 

"Poor  child,  I  guess  you've  got  about  the  worst  wound  yit. 
Alice !  Alice !  Poor  thing,  her  heart's  broke.  1  alius  suspected 
how  'twas.  There — there — that's  right ;  open  your  eyes.  Gra- 
cious !  don't  groan  so — don't,  child !  It'll  all  be  right,  poor  little 
thing ! " 

As  she  revived,  Alice  looked  at  Hiram  in  a  scared  and  bewil- 
dered way.   Little  by  little  her  memory  came  with  consciousness. 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  487 

'  Hiram,  let  me  go  back." 

"Why,  Alice,  don't,"  said  Hiram,  in  a  coaxing  way,  at  the 
same  time  drawing  her  gently  by  the  hand. 

"Hiram,  I  must  go  to  him.  He  is  not  dead  !  If  we  only  go 
quick  he  will  come  to.     Do  go,  Hiram — do  go  I  " 

It  Avas  not  in  human  nature  to  resist.  A  short  walk  brought 
them  again  to  Heywood.  The  moment  they  reached  his  feet,  with 
sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  Alice  stopped  short. 

"  Hiram,  he  is  dead  1  He  will  never  speak  again  !  Oh,  how 
noble !     Is  he  not  beautiful  ?  " 

"  Why,  Alice,  I  didn't  know  as  he  was  in  love  with  you!  " 

Had  he  pierced  her  with  a  sword  she  could  not  have  shown  a 
face  of  anguish  such  as  she  instantly  exhibited.  Then,  in  a  low  and 
half-whispered  tone  she  said — a  slight  color  coming  to  her  pale 
cheek : 

"ITo — he  did  not  love  me.  But  I  loved  him.  And  now  he 
never  will  know  it.     Oh!  Hiram,  he  was  good  and  noble!  " 

After  a  moment's  pause  she  said  artlessly  : 

"You  don't  think  it  was  wrong,  do  you,  Hiram?  I  am  not 
sorry.    I  am  not  ashamed  of  it.     He  was  very  noble !  " 

"  Lord  bless  you,  child,  it  was  all  right,  poor  thing — it  was  jest 
as  right  as  it  could  be." 

Hiram  pulled  out  a  cotton  handkerchief,  which  he  carried  in 
his  hat,  and  after  hemming  and  coughing  a  little,  and  dabbing  it 
first  to  one  eye  and  then  to  the  other,  he  began,  he  did  not  exactly 
know  why,  to  wipe  his  hat ;  an  operation  less  needful,  as  it  was  a 
straw  hat. 

Alice  sat  down  by  Heywood,  apparently  unconscious  that  any 
one  was  present.  Her  thoughts  were  like  an  unloosed  boat,  with 
no  one  at  the  rudder,  which  turns  round  and  round  in  the  tide,  and 
drifts  just  as  the  wind  or  under  currents  impel  it — a  boat  upon  a 
troubled  water  and  under  a  dark  sky. 

"  Oh,  cruel,  cruel !  to  pick  the  fairest  and  noblest !  The  wicked 
and  ugly  have  escaped,  and  he  is  gone,  so  good!  so  good  ! — Eyes 
that  shall  never  see  again — lips  that  shall  never  speak — hands 
that  are  death  cold !  So  true — so  beautiful — so  good !  He  was 
good!     Hush!  bestirred!     Hiram?" 

Hiram  had  tact  enough  not  to  oppose  Alice,  and  humoring  her 
idea  that  Heywood  was  only  in  a  swoon,  he  said : 


488  Norwood, 

"I guess,  Miss  Catlicart,  vre  better  take  him  over,  and  let  the 
doctors  see  if  any  thing  can  be  done  for  him.  Mebbe  he'll  come  to." 

"  Oh,  yes !     Hiram,  dear  Hiram,  do  take  him  to  the  camp." 

"  Well,  if  you'll  go  back,  I'll  see  to  it.  You  can't  be  no  help 
here,  and  yon  may  be,  over  there." 

Directing  some  of  the  ambulance  men  to  remove  the  body,  he 
led  Alice  away  to  Rose. 

In  a  sunny  field,  close  up  under  the  edge  of  a  grove,  and  about 
T'-alf  way  between  Little  Round  Top  and  the  bridge  across  the  Rock 
Creek,  of  the  Baltimore  turnpike,  a  grave  was  prepared.  A  chap- 
iain  from  the  sixth  corps,  of  his  own  church,  read  the  solemn  bur- 
ial service.  Three  women,  half  a  dozen  men,  stood  around.  The 
roar  of  distant  cannon  was  the  only  response. 

The  sun  feU  warm  in  the  very  grave.  Rose  had  plucked  from 
the  near  trees  some  burnished  oak-leaves  ;  and  hastily  plaiting 
them  to  a  wreath,  laid  them  on  Heywood's  breast.  Thus  fell  one 
who  hated  the  war,  but  was  swept  into  it  by  the  turbulent  tide  of 
revolution  which  he  had  not  strength  to  resist. 

Agate  Bissell  proposed  to  Rose  that  they  should  send  Alice  to 
the  farm-house  of  old  father  Lobdell,  where  they  had  spent  Wednes- 
day night.  But  all  thoughts  of  planning  for  her  comfort  were  laid 
aside  when  they  saw  Alice's  conduct. 

After  she  returned  to  the  hospital,  she  arranged  her  apparel 
with  more  than  common  care,  stepped  forth  calmly,  but  firmly  to 
her  merciful  duties.  Her  face  was  serene  but  without  smiles.  Her 
care  and  pity,  always  striking,  had  in  them  now  an  austere  tender- 
ness that  struck  the  rudest  men  with  awe  and  admiration,  as  if  an 
inspired  priestess  were  among  them,  its'or,  to  the  end,  did  Alice 
ever  mention  Heywood's  name,  nor  for  one  waking  hour,  did  she 
ever  forget  it ! 


CHAPTER  LII. 

THE     LAST     ENDEAVOR. 

Ox  tbe  third  day  of  July,  and  the  third  of  the  complex  battle 
of  Gettysburg,  Lee,  having  in  vain  assaulted  the  left  of  tbe  Union 
lineontheday  before,  determined  to  break  through  the  centre, 
and  at  the  same  time  to  enlarge  the  hold  which  he  had  secured 
upon  the  extreme  Union  right,  on  the  eastern  slope  of  Gulp's  Hill. 
But  by  four  in  the  morning  Meade  attacked  the  intrusive  forces 
which  had  thus,  while  yesterday's  battle  raged  on  the  extreme 
left,  as  it  were  stolen  in  on  the  right,  and  by  eleven  o'clock  they 
were  driven  out,  thus  anticipating  and  defeating  Lee's  intention 
of  turning  the  Union  right. 

A  wonderful  silence  now  came  over  the  vast  battlefield  and 
brooded  for  the  space  of  two  hours.     Birds  sang  again,  though 
the  ground  beneath  them  was  covered  with  unburied  men.     The 
rustling  of  leaves  could  be  heard  once  more  by  the  men  who  lay 
resting  under  the  trees.     But  the  very  silence,  that  usually  brings 
all  thoughts  of  peace,  now  sharpened  men's  fears.     It  was  like 
that  dreadful  calm  which  precedes  the  burst  of  storms.     Just  such 
it  was.    At  one  o'clock  it  was  broken  by  an  uproar  as  wonderful 
as  had  been  the  silence.     Two  hundred  and  thirty-five  cannon 
joined  in  a  clangor  of  death,  such  as  had  never  been  heard  upon 
this  continent.     Lee  had  concentrated  a  hundred  and  forty-five 
guns  over  against  the  centre  of  Gemetery  Ridge,  and  Meade  rephed 
with  eighty  guns— aU  that  could  be  well  placed  in  his  narrower 
space.     The  other  battle  before  seemed  noiseless  compared  with 
this  immense   cannonading.     The  slopes  of  Oak  Eidge  and  the 
swells  upon  the  further  side  of  the  valley  seemed  on  fire.    Each 
little  hill-top  became  a  volcano.     From  the  right,  from  the  left, 
from  the  centre,  battery  upon  battery,   and  parks   of  batteries 
flamed  and  thundered.     The  smoke  rolled  up  white  and  bluish- 
gray,  as  storm-clouds  lift  and  roll  up  the  sides  of  mountains. 
From  every  direction  came  the  flying  missiles— cross-ploughing 
Cemetery  Hill  with  hideous  furrows,  in  which  to  plant  dead  men. 
Shot  flew  clear  over  the  ridge— caissons  sheltered  behind  the  hill 


490  Norwood ;  or, 

■were  reached  and  blown  up.  Horses  standing  harnessed  to 
reserved  artillery,  in  places  before  secure,  were  smitten  down. 
Strange  was  the  discordant  music  of  the  missile  sounds,  for  which 
there  "were  no  pauses,  that  filled  the  air.  Some  went  hissing,  some 
flew  with  muffled  growl,  some  shook  out  a  gushing  sound  like  the 
rush  of  waters  ;  some  carried  with  them  an  intense  and  malignant 
howl ;  some  spit  and  sputtered  in  a  spiteful  manner ;  others 
whirred,  or  whistled,  or  spun  threads  of  tenor  or  treble  sounds. 
But  whatever  the  variety  in  this  awful  aerial  music,  all  meant 
death.  If  a  thousand  meteors  had  burst,  and  each  one  flung  down 
shattered  masses  of  meteoric  stone,  it  would  have  scarcely  seemed 
more  like  a  deluge  of  iron  rain  than  now  it  did.  Orderlies  and 
aids  found  the  roads  and  fields  on  the  far  side  of  the  hill,  safe  be- 
fore, now  raining  with  bullets.  Meade's  head-quarters  were 
riddled  and  his  staff  driven  to  another  quarter.  In  half  an  hour 
all  the  fields  were  cleared  and  the  men  were  under  cover.  For- 
tunately, the  enemy's  artillery  was  elevated  too  much.  The  Union 
soldiers  escaped  with  comparatively  little  harm,  while  the  reverse 
of  the  hill  was  excoriated  with  shot  and  shell.  In  the  burial- 
ground  on  the  head  of  Cemetery  Ridge,  projecting  toward  the 
village  of  Gettysburg,  fell  the  iron  hall,  rending  the  graves  and 
splintering  the  monuments.  Mowers  growing  on  graves  were 
rudely  picked  by  hurtling  iron.  Soldiers  who  had  fallen  at  Fair 
Oaks,  and  had  been  brought  here  for  burial,  far  away  from  all 
thought  of  battle,  in  this  quiet  Pennsylvania  vale,  were  still  pur- 
sued by  war,  which  rudely  tore  up  their  graves ;  and  they  heard 
again  the  thunder  of  battle  swelling  above  these  resting-places, 
where,  it  would  seem  they  should  have  found  quiet. 

TThen  it  had  thundered  and  rained  iron  for  more  than  two 
hours,  there  came  moving  across  the  valley  fifteen  thousand  men 
to  take  possession  of  that  ridge !  As  they  moved  from  afar  the 
Union  artillery  smote  them ;  but  they  did  not  heed  it.  As  they 
drew  near,  still  rent  by  shot  and  sheU, — earnest,  eager,  brave, — 
there  burst  upon  their  right  flank  a  fire  of  musketry  and  artillery 
that  quite  crumpled  up  and  swung  back  their  men  upon  their 
centre.  iSText,  their  left  wing  was  utterly  riddled  and  routed  by 
the  sharpness  of  the  musketry  ;  and  what  part  was  not  captured 
fled  and  escaped.  But  the  massive  centre,  with  men  as  brave  as 
ever  faced  death,  stern,  headlong,  pushed  right  up  to  Hancock's 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  491 

lines,  and  across  them,  but  could  come  no  further !  Like  a  ship 
whose  impetus  carried  it  far  up  upon  a  shoal,  from  which  it  can- 
not recede  when  it  would,  several  brigades  had  shot,  by  the  ter- 
rible momentum,  so  far  up,  that  when  from  the  slopes  of  the  cem- 
etery, and  from  the  artillery  on  Meade's  left  wing,  they  were 
enfiladed,  while  Hancock,  with  fresh  brigades  drawn  from  his  left, 
met  them  in  front  with  a  fire  that  pierced  like  a  flame,  they 
yielded  themselves  up.  They  had  gotten  the  hill  for  which  they 
came,  but  not  as  \ictors.  The  rest  shrunk,  driven  backward, 
sharply  raked  with  artillery  and  scorched  with  sheets  of  musketry, 
got  them  out  of  the  battle,  and  fled  across  the  valley  to  their  lines, 
whence  they  should  come  no  more  out  hitherward.  Many  that 
longed  to  go  with  them  lay  with  pitiful  wounds.  A  thousand 
that  an  hour  before  were  fierce  in  ambitious  expectation,  now  and 
never  more  cared  what  befell  them,  nor  what  happened  under 
the  sun  !  When  the  sun  went  down  on  that  3d  of  July,  the  Union 
army,  a  mighty  sufferer  in  more  than  twenty  thousand  slain  and 
wounded  men,  yet  had  never  such  cause  of  rejoicing  for  the  com- 
ing anniversary  day  as  now,  when  all  those  thousands  of  men  joy- 
fully had  died  or  suffered  wounds  to  preserve  that  nation's  life 
whose  birthday  is  celebrated  on  the  Fourth  of  July! 

The  morning  of  Saturday,  the  4th  of  July,  rose  fair  %ver  Get- 
tysburg. Ewell's  corps  of  Lee's  army  withdrew  from  the  town 
and  Howard's  troops  immediately  took  possession. 

There  was  great  joy  throughout  the  Union  army.  Oflicers 
congratulated  each  other ;  the  men  were  raised  to  the  proudest 
exultation.  The  army  of  the  Potomac,  the  victim  of  misfortunes, 
but  always  a  model  of  indomitable  patience,  had  at  length  met 
their  great  antagonist  in  a  long  and  severe  fight,  and  thoroughly 
defeated  him.  "While  all  were  exhilarated  with  the  inmiediate 
victory,  the  thoughtful  men  of  the  army  experienced  a  deeper 
gladness  in  their  prescience  of  the  scope  of  this  victory  in  its  rela- 
tion to  public  affairs.  The  climax  was  reached.  Henceforward  the 
Confederate  cause  was  subject  to  decline,  weakness  and  extinction. 

The  work  of  burying  the  dead  engaged  large  details  of  soldiers. 
The  wounded  were  sought  out  more  assiduously.  Lee  having  with- 
drawn his  right  wing  from  before  Round  Top  and  concentrated 
his  whole  force  on  the  hills  over  against  Gettysburg,  there  could 
be  no  danger  in  going  over  on  the  field  of  battle.    Relief  parties 


492  Norwood ;  or, 

were  busy.  Among  the  rocks  of  Round  Top  and  Devirs  Den 
wounded  men  were  found  in  fissures,  slid  down  into  gaping 
chasms,  and  in  the  black  seams,  pits  and  caves  which  abounded  in 
that  savage  tangle  of  giant  rocks.  But  it  is  probable  that  many 
wounded  died  unsuccored  in  those  dark  spaces,  and  that  the  bones 
of  many  yet  lie  buried  but  unsepulchi,'ed,  with  the  huge  rocks 
around  them  as  stones  of  hiding  rather  than  of  memorial. 

The  farm-houses  were  filled  with  wounded  ;  barns  were  filled ; 
the  fields  were  as  full  as,  in  a  few  days,  they  would  have  been  of 
sheaves  of  the  wheat  which  had  been  so  strangely  threshed  by  the 
feet  of  wounded  men.  The  town  was  full ;  all  the  sheltered  spots 
and  nooks  were  full.  A  large  number  of  the  enemy's  wounded, 
particularly  of  the  last  day's  battle,  remained  upon  the  field  ;  the 
total  was  swelled  to  an  extraordinary  aggregate.  This  little  hamlet 
of  a  few  hundred  people  had  become  a  great  city  of  wounded  men. 

The  tidings  of  the  battle  spreading  through  the  land  had  begun 
already  to  bring  hither  those  who  had  sons  in  the  fight.  As  fast 
as  trains  could  be  dispatched,  those  of  the  wounded  who  could  be 
transported  were  sent  away  to  various  cities,  for  better  care.  The 
horror  of  the  scene  was  much  alleviated  by  the  cheerfulness  of  the 
wounded.  As  soon  as  their  wounds  had  been  dressed,  and  they 
were  placed  in  comfortable  circumstances,  those  not  desperately 
hurt  grew  quite  talkative  and  even  merry.  The  women  of  Gettys- 
burg, and  the  wives  of  the  farmers  living  in  the  region,  devoted 
themselves  to  the  care-of  the  sufferers  with  heroic  devotion.  But 
the  stolid  farmers  and  men  of  the  district  round  about  the  town, 
manifested  neither  patriotism  nor  humanity,  practising  every  ex- 
tortion, and  wringing  out  money  for  a  drop  of  water  given  to  the 
wounded  men  who  had  fallen  in  the  defence  of  their  homes  and 
Uves! 

There  are  no  contrasts  more  striking  than  those  between 
human  feeling  and  the  moods  of  the  atmosphere.  On  this  fourth 
day  of  July  a  joyous  sun  arose  over  the  most  sorrowful  scene  that 
it  could  well  look  upon.  Three  days  had  converted  a  peaceful 
valley  into  a  Golgotha.  No  form  of  injury  which  the  human  body 
can  receive  was  wanting.  The  ingenuity  of  nature  in  the  produc- 
tion of  life  is  not  greater  than  the  ingenuity  of  death  in  the  destruc- 
tion of  life.  Leaves  and  flowers  are  not  more  varied  in  form  than 
were  wounds.    From  the  crown  of  the  head  to  the  sole  of  the 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  493 

feet,  there  was  not  a  point  in  the  hnman  body  which  had  not  been 
pierced.  The  wildest  caprice  had  revelled  in  singularities  of 
effects.  Men  received  a  mere  scratch  of  a  glancing  ball,  and  the 
shock  overthrew  their  nervous  system.  Another,  with  wounds  on 
every  limb,  the  lungs  pierced,  bones  broken,  the  head  torn,  tramp- 
led on  hymen,  run  over  by  artillery,  stabbed,  shot,  hacked,  bruised, 
given  up  by  surgeons,  still  clung  to  life  and  climbed  back  again  to 
health  !  The  fields  bore  ghastly  harvests  of  suffering  men.  The 
sun  came  up  and  shined  upon  them  as  if  they  were  but  heads  of 
yellow  wheat.  Their  tremblings  and  shrinkings  were  to  ^nature 
only  as  the  quivering  of  leaves  in  the  frolicsome  wind ;  their 
groans  and  sighs  passed  for  no  more  than  the  singing  of  birds  or 
the  low  moaning  -of  the  pines. 

The  morning  seemed  an  emblem  of  victory  to  the  unwounded 
and  exultant  soldiers.  They  said  :  "  The  sun  triumphs !  N'ature 
exults !  The  heavens  and  the  earth  rejoice  with  us !  " — But  how 
was  it  to  the  wounded  man — too  weak  to  turn  away  his  face  from 
the  sun  which  shone  full  upon  it  with  blistering  heat  ?  How  was 
it  with  hundreds  of  parents  and  friends,  wandering  up  and  down 
through  all  the  vast  field  in  search  of  some  child,  brother,  lover  ? 
"What  mockery  of  grief  was  it,  as  the  mother  sat  down  by  the 
corpse  of  her  only  son,  that  the  heavens  cared  not,  that  it  spread 
its  brilliant  arch  without  sympathy  for  aught  below  it,  and  that 
the  heartless  sun  marched  on  over  anguish,  desolation  and  despair, 
as  if  this  had  been,  not  a  battle,  but  a  banquet. 

Could  a  pitiful  God  look  down  through  the  air  on  such  a  scene 
and  not  fill  it  with  his  sympathy,  and  change  it  to  a  soberer  hue  ? 
Alas  !  this  great  field  of  war  was  but  a  point,  a  mere  punctuation 
mark  of  blood,  in  the  history  of  that  world  which  groans  and 
travails  in  pain  until  now !  As  the  midwife,  in  the  throes  and 
groans  of  the  mother,  heeds  not  the  pain,  but  waits  for  the  child 
that  shall  bring  joy  out  of  woe,  so  we  must  needs  think  the  Merci- 
ful heeds  not  the  forms  of  suffering,  but  looks  beyond,  at  the 
blessings  wrought  by  them !  When  at  last  account  shall  be  taken 
of  all  the  blood  that  has  been  shed  and  of  all  the  tears  that  have 
fallen,  then  the  most  wonderful  name  of  God  will  be.  The  Long 

SUFFEEIXG  ! 

And  God  has  taught  the  Sun  to  see  beyond  and  through  the 
beginnings  of  things  to  their  ends. 


494  Norwood ;  or. 

For  the  Sun  forever  sees  life  and  not  death.  It  beholds  in  the 
revolution  of  the  sod,  not  the  roots  that  die,  but  the  harvests  which 
shall  spring  from  their  death.  Death  is  but  the  prophet  of  life. 
The  evil  is  but  for  a  moment.  The  benefit  runs  through  the  whole 
season.  What  if  twenty  thousand  wounded  men  lie  groaning 
here  ?  It  is  the  price  of  a  nation's  life !  The  instruments  of  their 
great  conflict  were  carnal,  but  its  fruits  spiritual. 

"War  ploughed  the  fields  of  Gettysburg,  and  planted  its  furrows 
with  men.  But,  though  the  seed  w^as  blood,  the  harvest  shall  be 
peace,  concord,  liberty^  and  universal  intelligence.  For  every 
groan  here,  a  hundred  elsewhere  ceased.  For  every  death  now,  a 
thousand  lives  shall  be  happier.  Individuals  suffered ;  the  nation 
revived ! 

Shine  on,  O  Sun!  that  behold  est  evermore  the  future !  Thou 
wUt  not,  glorious  Eye  of  Hope, — ever  looking  at  the  ends, — be 
veiled  or  mourn  because  the  ways  are  rough  through  which  God 
sends  universal  blessings ! 

I  cannot  say  that  such  thoughts  as  these  passed  through  the 
mind  of  Eose  "Wentworth  on  this  glorious  morning  after  victory. 
But  had  some  one  thought  aloud  such  thoughts,  she  would  have 
been  in  full  and  instant  sympathy  with  them.  There  was  a  latent 
sense  of  the  great  mercy  to  the  nation  of  this  victory  which  lifted 
her  above  the  mere  sight  of  the  eyes,  and  instead  of  being  depressed 
with  the  vast  sacrifice  spread  around  her,  she  had  an  instinct  of 
its  meaning,  and  a  calm  and  peaceful  gladness.  She  had  need  to 
have  it. 

"I  wonder  w-here  Pete  is?"  said  Agate  Bissell,  as  it  drew 
toward  noon.  "  I  have  not  seen  him  this  morning.  He  ought  to 
be  here  and  tell  us  about  Barton." 

"  There  comes  Hiram,"  said  Rose ;  "  he  will  do  as  well.  What 
a  brave  fellow  Hiram  is !  He  has  shown  more  courage,  and  per- 
formed more  work,  too,  in  succoring  the  wounded,  than  if  he  had 
carried  a  musket.    All  the  brave  men  are  not  in  the  ranks." 

Something  disquieted  Hiram  Beers  this  morning.  He  had  little 
to  say  and  seemed  fidgety.  He  picked  up  things  only  to  lay  theni 
down,  and  worked  without  any  purpose.     At  last,  he  gave  way  5 

"  'Tain't  no  use.  Rose ;  you  may's  weU  know  it  fust  as  last. 
I've  got  a  letter  for  you  from  Barton,  and  I  expect  it's  the  last 
one  you'll  ever  git  from  him." 


Villaije  Life  in  New  England.  495 

Rose  stopped,  and,  raising  herself  to  her  full  height,  looked 
fixedly  and  even  commandingly  upon  Hiram. 

"  Hiram,  has  Barton  fallen?  " 

"  I  don't  know  ;  I'm  afraid  so.  I  can't  find  nothin'  of  him. 
Pete's  gone  ;  nobody's  seen  him  to-day.  Barton's  officers  say  they 
saw  him  fall  in  a  charge  yesterday,  and  that  he  didn't  come  hack 
with  his  men,  and  that  ho  must  he  dead.  But  we've  hunted  every 
where  for  his  body  and  can't  find  it.  I  was  up  there  the  niglit  be- 
fore the  last  battle.  He  said  something  would  happen  to  him  in 
that  fight.  He  felt  it.  He  told  me  to  wait  till  he  wrote  this  let- 
ter. If  he  got  out  safe,  I  was  to  bring  it  back  to  him  ;  but  if  he 
was  killed,  I  was  to  give  it  to  you." 

Rose  took  the  letter,  and  read : 

"  I  have  a  presentiment,  Rose,  that  something  will  befall  me 
to-morrow.  If  you  receive  these  lines  I  shall  have  fallen,  and  my 
words  will  be  forgiven  as  of  one  dead.  Rose,  I  have  vainly  tried 
to  conquer  that  love  which  has  so  taken  possession  of  my  life  as 
to  overcome  all  other  feelings.  As  early  as  I  can  remember,  I 
loved  you.  It  has  grown  with  my  manhood.  It  is  a  part  of  my 
being !  Kot  to  love  you  would  be  not  to  be  myself.  "When  I  told 
you  all  this,  on  leaving  home,  I  had  hoped  for  some  sympathy  ;  I 
plead  for  only  a  word.  My  letter  was  not  answered  or  noticed. 
Perhaps  your  silence  was  best.  It  was  hard  to  bear.  If  I  could 
have  ceased  loving,  I  could  have  conquered  the  pain  of  that  re- 
fusal which  you  gave  by  silence.  It  will  not  be  a  trouble  to  you 
any  longer  to  know  that  a  heart  has  loved  you  beyond  every  other 
thing.  My  latest,  strongest  feeling,  Rose,  is  love  for  you !  My 
last  wishes  and  prayers  invoke  blessings  on  you !  I  go  towai'd  dark- 
ness ;  but  there  is  a  light  beyond.  In  Heaven,  O  Rose,  ui  Heaven 
I  shall  meet  you,  and  say,  I  love  you,  without  fear  or  repulse. 

Baeton  Cathoaet." 

Rose  stood  silent  and  motionless.  Amazement,  sorrow  and 
joy  filled  her  heart.     She  whispered  to  herself: 

"He  loved  me!  He  loved  me  always! — best! — to  the  last! 
He  told  me  of  it!  When?  v^Tiat  letter?  There  has  been  some 
dreadful  mistake !  This  is  his  writing— this  is  Barton's  writing  !— 
and  here  it  is  written  down :  « My  latest,  strongest  feelircg^  Hose,  is 
love  for  you  ! '  And  he  will  never  know  that  I  loved  him  more  I 
22 


496  Nonoood ;  or, 

Noble  sou],  if  thou  art  in  heaven,  God  will  tell  thee  how  thou  art 
loved ! — And  he  wrote  to  me !  wrote  to  tell  me  all  this  when  first 
leaving  Norwood?  Where  is  that  treacherous  letter  that  did  not 
fulfil  its  message?  " 

Eose  called  to  Alice.  There  was  something  in  her  manner  so 
high  and  commanding,  that  Alice  scarcely  believed  that  this  was 
Eose.     She  had  never  seen  her  in  a  mood  of  such  exaltation. 

"Alice,  my  sister.  Barton  has  left  us!  "  Alice  could  not  look 
paler  than  she  already  was,  but  a  ghastly,  ashen  hue  came  over  the 
white  of  her  fair  face.  "Eead  this,  Alice. — Can  you  not?  Let 
me  read  it  to  you." 

With  a  firm,  low  voice,  Eose  read  every  word  without  falter- 
ing. Barton's  words  of  love  seemed  to  inspire  her  soul.  There 
was  a  triumph  in  the  gentlest  of  her  tones  that  showed  that  sor- 
row had  in  it  an  overmastering  joy. 

Alice  looked  upon  Eose  with  wonder. 

In  a  low  and  solemn  way,  with  a  wondering,  inquiring  look 
she  said  : 

"I  cannot  understand  you!  It  all  seems  dreadful  to  me! 
God  is  full  of  anger  toward  us  both." 

"  Alice,  God  loves  us  both !  Oh  !  I  know  not  what  joy  that 
would  have  been  of  loving,  had  Barton  lived  and  loved  me,  since 
even  in  death  his  love  is  so  full  of  joy  and  thrilling.  I  am  more 
glad  than  sorrowful.  He  loved  me !  loved  me  always !  loved  me 
to  the  end!  My  heart  sings ;  only  my  eyes  weep!  Come,  Alice, 
let  not  people  see  us." 

They  walked  along  the  edges  of  the  woods.  Again  the  little 
birds  were  singing, — the  melancholy  pee- wee,  the  pine-warbler, 
the  vireo.  They  came  to  Heywood's  grave.  The  sun  shone 
brightly  upon  it.  Already  some  one  had  transplanted,  from  the 
edges  of  the  wood,  clumps  of  flowers. 

Poor  Alice,  tears  running  down  her  cheeks,  turned  to  Eose : 

"Oh,  Eose,  tell  me  how  to  feel  as  you  do!  My  heart  was 
sunk  down  so  low  that  there  is  no  more  light  for  me!  I  have 
envied  the  dead  around  me.  I  want  to  go.  God  does  not  love 
me  enough  to  let  me  die  !  " 

"  Alas,  Alice,  grief  poisons  you  !  me  it  cheers.  I  am  glad  that 
I  suffer.  Death  has  divided  you  from  your  lover ;  but  has  givea 
mine  to  me.     Barton's  death  has  made  him  mine.     Oh,  noble  soul  I 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  497 

oh,  heavenly  hero!  oh,  spirit  Tvalking  free  in  glory  !— death,  that 
separates  others,  unites  us !  I  am  thine  !  I  am  henceforth  wedded 
till  thou  come  for  me!  Oh,  Alice,  il^hy  should  I  be  sad?  My 
heart  is  with  him.  My  thoughts  walk  with  him.  My  life  is  lifted 
up  higher  than  sorrows  ever  fly !  " 

"  Oh,  Rose!  you  make  me  feel  worse  than  ever.  You  seem 
gone  away  from  me.  I  cannot  follow  you.  When  he  fell,  the 
whole  world  fell  too,  to  me.  I  cannot  see  any  thing  that  is  bright. 
I  do  not  love  any  body  now— nor  you,  nor  father,  nor  motlier, 
nor  myself.  Oh!  my  heart  is  very  angry.  God  is  cruel.  Rose  !— 
I  will  speak  it.  God  is  cruel  to  me — very  cruel.  I  don't  want  to 
live  ;  and,  if  I  were  to  die,  he  would  not  love  me  tliere  !  " 

Rose  was  drawn  down  fi'om  her  own  high  thoughts  by  Alice's 
childlike  outburst  of  sorrow. 

"  My  sister,  I  am  sorry.  I  am  more  sorry  for  you  than  for  my- 
self. You  do  not  know  what  you  say,  that  you  love  nothing. 
Your  heart  'is  like  a  bird  driven  into  the  woods  by  a  thunder 
storm.  By  and  by  it  will  sing  again.  But  I  know  that  God  loves 
you,  or  he  would  not  so  afflict  you.  All  this  black  will  be  white 
by  and  by.     Be  brave,  and  resist  the  selfishness  of  sorrow." 

"  Rose,  I  am  not  selfish.  I  shall  give  my  whole  life  away  for 
others.  I  was  not  selfish.  I  did  not  ask  great  happiness  for  my- 
self. I  only  wanted  him  to  love  me  enough  to  let  me  love  him.  I 
would  not  have  troubled  him.  I  could  have  kept  trouble  from  him, 
and  helped  him  a  little,  and  loved  when  I  could  stand  a  little  way 
off  and  look  at  him.  He  would  never  love  me  as  Barton  loved 
you,  Rose.  Oh,  you  will  never  know  all  of  that !  But  if  after  a 
great  while  he  should  say,  'Alice,  I  am  always  happier  when  you 
are  by  me,'  oh,  Rose,  the  angels  in  the  resurrection  will  say  nothing 
so  sweet  as  that  would  be  !     But  he  will  never  say  it  now !  " 

Rose  caught  at  Barton's  name. 

"  Did  Barton  confide  his  feelings  to  you,  Alice  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  did.  No,  he  did  not.  I  mean,  I  knew  them  without 
his  saying  any  thing.  And  I  am  sure  he  knew  mine.  And  we 
both  knew  that  the  other  knew  all ;  and  so,  when  he  would  say  a 
few  words  and  stop,  I  knew  all  the  rest." 

"It  is  strange— very  strange — that  Barton  did  not  speak." 

"It  is  stranger  that  you  should  have  needed  to  have  him.  If 
Ilc  had  been  near  me,  as  Barton  was  near  you,  and  felt  as  Barton 


498  Norwood;  or, 

did,  I  should  Lave  known  it,  just  as  I  know  the  morning  is  come 
when  it  floods  my  window  with  light." 

Eose  mused  a  moment : 

"My  time  had  not  come.  I  was  like  one  who  hears  sounds  in 
Ms  sleep  and  turns  them  all  into  the  fahric  of  his  dream.  Surely 
I  knew !  and  yet  I  knew  not.  It  was  like  seed  sown  hefore  the 
ground  is  warm.  But  the  summer  floods  me  now.  Every  seed  la 
a  blossom !  " 

They  sat  for  a  while,  silent  and  thoughtful ;  then  Alice  pointed 
to  a  clump  of  columbines  that  had  blossomed  by  the  edge  of  a  rock. 

"  Eose,  you  are  like  those  flowers,  and  trouble  seems  to  move 
you  as  the  vrind  does  them,  only  to  show  the  sparkle  of  the  sun- 
light with  every  motion.  I  am  like  the  shadow  which  they  cast 
upon  the  rock,  that  perishes  by  night,  and  is  but  a  shadow  all 
day." 

Eose  still  fell  oflT  into  musing — often  talking  to  herself  in  a  low 
tone,  or  half  whisper,  as  one  who  chants  a  forming  poem  to  weigh 
its  words. 

"  O  my  soul,  thou  art  crowned  to-day !  O  death,  that  hast 
taken  his  presence  from  me,  thou  hast  given  me  Lis  heart !  In 
one  moment  I  am  bereaved  and  wedded, — I  am  cast  down  and  ex- 
alted !  Barton,  thou  didst  all  thy  life  love  me — without  response ! 
I,  too,  all  my  life  will  love  thee,  alone  and  unrequited !  " 

Eose  took  Alice  to  her  bosom  and  kissed  her,  with  a  strange 
and  solemn  tenderness  which  brought  tears  from  her  eyes.  But 
Eose  neither  wept  nor  was  sad. 

"Alice,  did  you  know  that  Barton  had  written  me  ?  " 
-      "I  did." 

"  TVhy  did  you  never  mention  it  ?  Was  it  sisterly  ?  I  knew 
not  of  it.  No  letter  has  ever  come  to  me  fi'om  Barton.  I  was  sad 
and  dark  that  he  went  away  forgetting  or  caring  little  for  his  child- 
hood friend.' 

"I  was  not  permitted,  Eose.  Barton  solemnly  enjoined  si- 
lence ;  upon  my  honor  I  was  not  to  mention  his  secret." 

"  Oh,  Alice  I  this  is  a  day  of  great  joy,  and  sorrow  cannot  reach 
to  it,  nor  pluck  it  down." 

"  I  can  only  see  grief  upon  grief.  He  is  gone,  and  Barton  is 
gone.     I  would  that  I,  too,  were  gone." 

"  Poor  Alice — dear  Alice — if  only  Hey  wood  would  speak  to 


ViUafje  Life  in  New  England.  499 

you  out  of  the  air,  or  coming  in  the  vision  of  the  night,  saying,  'I 
do  wholly  love  thee,  Alice,'  would  you  not  triumph  over  grief?" 

Alice  shuddered  with  intensity  of  feeling. 

"  Yes ! — if  I  might  know  that  ho  loved  me,  and  would  always 
love  me,  I  would  go  through  a  thousand  years  of  sorrow  and  be 
glad  all  the  way!  But,  oh!  Rose,  Rose,  he  did  not  love  me.  It 
was  you — not  me." 

And  Alice  wept  like  a  little  child.  Rose  comforted  her  as  a 
mother  comforts  her  child,  and,  withdrawing  her  from  thoughts 
of  herself,  Rose,  half  to  Alice  and  half  to  herself,  went  on : 

"At  last  I  am  free.  Xo  more  checking!  N"o  more  self-deceiv- 
ing! No  more  suffering  and  misnaming  of  one's  deepest  life!  No 
more  shame  for  the  heart's  best  fruit!  I  am  beloved  and  I  lovel 
I  almost  wish  it  were  known.  I  would  that  men  could  see  it  on 
my  brow,  and  read  it  in  my  eyes.  I  would  that  all  that  knew 
him,  when  they  behold  me,  might  say,  *  See  how  his  love  covers 
her  as  with  a  queen's  garment ! '  I  would  have  such  gladness  in 
my  eyes  that  men  should  say,  '  His  love  is  like  a  crowning  flame 
about  her  head !  '  " 

"  O  Rose !  I  do  not  understand  you.  I  cannot  rise  as  you  do. 
My  heart  is  heavy,  my  soul  is  dark,  my  life  is  gone  out.  I  dare  not 
murmur,  but  I  cannot  submit.  I  was  not  called,  and  yet  I  loved. 
Great  is  my  punishment." 

"Mourn  not,  Alice!  It  is  noble  to  love  with  an  unsullied 
love !  Not  those  who  love  are  poor,  but  those  who  do  not.  He 
was  poorer  that  knew  not  how  to  love  you,  than  you,  whom  God 
made  wise  to  love  greatly  and  divinely.  As  for  me,  this  is  the 
day  of  my  espousals.  I  will  sing  of  sorrow  now  all  the  days  of  my 
life.  Since  God  has  taken  him  into  heaven,  he  will  send  over  all 
things  that  the  heavens  cover,  something  of  his  nobleness  and 
honor.  The  sun  shall  be  brighter  to  me  for  his  sake ;  the  earth, 
and  all  that  grows  upon  it,  shall  have  new  meaning  now ;  and 
every  sound  that  the  ear  loves  to  hear  shall  be  to  me  a  part  of  his 
voice,  saying,  '  Rose,  I  love  .thee  1 '  " 

The  clouds  had  been  silently  gathering  in  the  sky.  First  a 
haze,  then  films  that  grew  thicker,  and  a  gray  tint  in  the  sunlight 
that  changed  rapidly  toward  dark,  until  soon  the  whole  heaven 
was  sheeted,  and  rain  began  to  fall ;  at  first  gently,  but  with  in- 
creasing quantity,  until  it  poured  abundantly. 


500  Norwood ;  or, 

Great  battles  are  said  to  bring  on  rain  storms.  A  great  rain 
certainly  set  in  on  Saturday  after  the  battle.  Eock  Creek,  that  had 
been  so  shallow  that  it  was  easily  crossed  by  the  men  upon  the 
stones,  without  wetting  their  feet,  began  now  to  show  signs  of 
uneasiness.  The  water  grew  discolored.  It  began  to  gather  vol- 
ume. One  familiar  stone  after  another  silently  disappeared.  It 
grew  more  restless,  and  began  to  send  down  flecks  of  foam.  It 
filled  up  the  edges,  clear  up  to  the  banks.  It  still  rose  as  evening 
came  on.  That  modest,  little  stream  had  became  surly  and  des- 
potic. "With  headlong  will  it  swept  all  before  it,  and  its  usual 
gentleness  was  lost  in  its  turbulent  rush  and  roar.  But  the  hos- 
pital lay  upon  both  banks  of  this  stream.  As  the  darkness  came 
on,  it  was  plain  that  the  men  must  be  removed.  Ko  time  was  to 
be  lost.  Ali-eady  the  stream  had  reached  the  wounded.  Those 
who  could  help  themselves  climbed  the  steep  slope  a  little  further 
inland,  to  which  the  surgeons  began  to  remove  the  men.  All  was 
haste.  Whatever  help  could  be  got  was  impressed.  Men  with 
stretchers  were  busy  carrying  the  badly  wounded.  With  all  their 
effort,  two  or  three,  overtaken  by  the  merciless  water,  were  swept 
away  and  drowned.  "When  morning  came,  a  raging  torrent  divided 
the  surgeons,  some  upon  the  further  bank  being  unable  for  hours  to 
cross  to  the  hospital  field.  The  bridge  on  the  Baltimore  pike  was 
overflowed,  its  planks  lifted  and  floated  away.  The  whole  night  was 
one  of  toil  and  anxiety. 

With  the  morning  came  joy  to  Rose.  On  the  second  day  of  the 
battle,  word  had  been  telegraphed  to  the  Northern  cities  for  surgi- 
cal aid.  The  enormous  accumulation  of  wounded  men.  Union 
and  rebels,  overtaxed  the  exertions  of  the  medical  corps.  At  this 
summons  speedily  came  many  scores  of  men  eminent  in  their  pro- 
fession, for  a  short  service  in  the  field,  and  among  them  Dr.  Went- 
worth.  Although  he  arrived  on  Saturday,  it  was  not  until  Sunday 
afternoon  that  Eose  met  her  father — and  then  she  had  to  search 
for  him.  Tor,  not  waiting  even  to  brush  the  dust  from  his  clothes, 
nor  for  food,  Dr.  Wentworth,  within  half  an  hour  after  reaching 
Gettysburg,  was  established  and  at  work.  ISTor  for  two  days  and 
two  nights  did  he  rest  for  an  hour.  Such  were  the  necessities  of 
the  occasion,  that  with  the  most  heroic  energy  and  perseverance 
of  the  regular  surgeons  of  the  army,  working  night  and  day,  and 
with  all  the  help  which  they  received  from  volunteers  from  the 


Villa  fje  Life  in  New  En  (/la  ml.  501 

profession  abroad,  it  was  three  or  four  days  before  the  first  round 
was  completed.  In  some  of  the  field  hospitals  the  wounded  were 
treated  as  they  came,  without  regard  to  the  side  to  which  they 
belonged.  In  other  hospitals  the  Union  soldiers  were  treated  first, 
and  in  one  case  three  or  four  hundred  rebel  wounded  waited  in  a 
barn  some  three  days  before  our  surgeons  could  reach  their  cases. 
But  then  the  reaction  had  set  in,  their  nervous  systems  were  pros- 
trated, and  they  could  not  endure  the  operations  necessary. 
Almost  every  man  died.  A  strange  fatality  attended  some  hos- 
pitals. In  some  places  almost  every  wound  led  to  lockjaw,  and 
every  attack  proved  fatal.  Some  hospitals  were  more  deadly  than 
the  battle-field.  Of  seven  hundred  men,  in  one  case,  who  bid  fair 
at  first  to  recover,  scarcely  a  hundred  survived.  The  poison  gene- 
rated by  sickness  and  wounds  when  vast  numbers  of  men  are  clus- 
tered closely  in  disadvantageous  circumstances  is  of  frightful  ma- 
lignancy. Men  fall  away  like  leaves  in  an  October  day  when  east 
winds  strike  the  trees  ! 


Among  the  memorials  and  monuments,  the  eulogies  and  honors 
so  deservedly  bestowed  upon  the  soldiers  and  officers  of  the  army, 
some  place  should  be  found,  not  second,  for  the  medical  gentlemen, 
who,  as  a  body,  illustrated  the  highest  virtues  of  patriotism  and 
humanity  in  their  extraordinary  zeal  and  labor.  Often  much  ex- 
posed to  fire,  conversant  with  fatigue  as  great  as  could  be  endured, 
brought  face  to  face  with  all  that  is  horrible  and  depressing  in  war, 
working  against  insuperable  obstacles,  maintaining  a  desperate  fight 
against  death,  without  those  almost  supernatural  excitements 
which  carry  men  through  battles,  the  surgeons  of  the  army  deserve 
to  be  ranked  with  the  foremost  soldiers.  Not  a  whit  less  is  due  to 
that  noble  army  of  nurses  who,  without  fee  or  reward,  devoted 
themselves  unweariedly,  from  the  beginning  of  the  war  to  the 
end,  to  the  sick  and  wounded  soldiers,  and  to  the  social  and  moral 
improvement  of  those  that  were  weU.  It  is  computed  that  first 
and  last  two  thousand  women,  during  the  war,  left  homes  of  re- 
finement and  comfort,  accepted  every  hardship  of  the  field  and  the 
march,  of  the  camp  and  of  the  hospital,  with  a  heroism  not  sur- 
passed by  the  soldiers.  Women  carried  with  them  the  inspiration 
of  love  and  duty,  and  brought  to  the  camp  the  remembrances  of 
home,  to  the  hospital  the  softer  graces  of  iiumanity,  and  every- 


502  Norwood, 

where  a  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  and  fidelity,  that  shone  like  a  rain- 
bow upon  a  scowling  clond  of  war. 

It  seems  fit.  therefore,  that  among  the  testimonies  of  a  nation's 
gratitude  some  recognition  should  be  given  to  this  rear-guard  of 
humanity!  At  least  it  would  be  a  wise  and  comely  act  for  the 
Government  of  this  Nation,  in  the  Capital,  to  rear  a  monument, 
and  inscribe  it 


THE  HEROIC  SURGEONS  AND  THE  NOBLE  WOMEN 

WHO 

LAID  DOWN  THEIR  LIVES  FOR  THE  NATION  I 


CHAPTER   LIII. 

THE     MOUNTAIN     COVERT. 

The  tidings  wLicli  Hiram  Beers  bronght  to  Barton's  friends  will 
re/^uire  ns  to  go  back  a  day  or  two,  and  to  trace  the  events  con- 
nected with  Barton  Cathcart's  fate. 

ITo  one  who  saw  the  calmness  and  cheerfulness  with  which 
Barton  awaited  the  famous  charge  of  Pickett  upon  the  left  centre 
of  the  Union  lines,  on  Friday  afternoon,  would  dream  that  he  was 
sad  or  foreboding.  It  was  not  the  darkness  of  despondency  or 
pain.  Coming  events  seemed  to  him  to  cast  their  shadows  over 
him.  But  there  was  in  this  very  premonition  a  cordial.  The 
settled  certainty  gave  calmness,  and  his  Christian  hope  gave  him 
cheerfulness. 

The  night  before  he  had,  as  we  have  already  learned,  entrusted 
Hiram  with  a  message,  and  he  also  had  made  every  arrangement 
with  Pete,  to  secure  to  his  friends  the  few  effects  which  might 
become  precious  in  their  sight.  Pete,  though  not  a  fighting 
character,  was  made  brave  in  exigencies  by  his  fidelity.  He  took 
good  care  of  his  own  person,  unless  General  Cathcart  was  in 
danger ;  then  he  almost  lost  sense  of  his  own  peril  in  his  anxiety 
for  his  master. 

When  the  grand  charge  of  Pickett's  corps  had  almost  expended 
its  force,  there  was  concentrated  upon  its  overtasked  ranks  such  a 
fire,  on  either  flank  and  in  the  front,  as  no  mortal  men  might 
endure.  Hundreds  dropped  their  muskets  and  fell  flat  upon  the 
ground  to  escape  the  sweep  of  fire.  A  thousand  men  were  captured. 
The  enemy  retired  sullenly,  fighting  from  point  to  point,  broken 
up  into  small  bodies.  The  utter  destruction  of  this,  the  flower  of 
Lee's  army,  might  have  been  accomplished  had  Meade  possessed 
reserves  of  fresh  troops.  As  it  was,  several  brilliant  charges  were 
made,  and  in  all  several  thousand  prisoners  captured.  It  was  in 
such  a  charge  that  Barton  Cathcart  was  first  severely  wounded  in 
the  thigh,  and  then,  separated  from  his  men,  he  found  himself 
surrounded  with  Confederate  soldiers,  and  borne  away  in  the 
whirl  of  the  retreating  masses.      At  first,  he  sought  to  break 


504  Norwood ;  or, 

througli  and  regain  bis  own  side,  but  a  bayonet  thrust  through  the 
right  arm  still  further  disabled  him,  and  he  was  swept  away  across 
the  valley,  and  in  half  an  hour,  was  within  Lee's  lines.  He  was 
speedily  sent  to  the  rear.  He  lay  all  night  in  the  open  fields, 
suffering  much  from  his  wounds,  and  musing  with  some  surprise 
upon  his  case.  "VTas  this,  then,  all  that  the  presentiment  meant? 
Was  it  only  wounds  and  captivity,  and  not  death  ? 

But,  though  at  first  he  felt  this  relief,  every  hour  of  the  night, 
while  he  pictured  to  himself  the  fate  of  prisoners  in  Southern 
prisons,  increased  the  feeling  that  he  had  escaped  death  for  a  worse 
fate. 

"When  the  morning  dawned  on  Saturday,  July  4,  his  spirits  had 
fallen  low.  The  excitement  of  battle  was  over.  Just  before  the 
dawn  came  that  utter  sinking  of  the  spirits  which  those  in  trouble 
so  well  know.  It  would  seem  as  if  between  dark  and  dawn  there 
was  a  space,  measured  by  an  hour  of  time,  through  which  the  globe 
moved,  infested  with  malign  spirits,  that  jibe  and  tempt  the  weary 
heart  and  ride  it  to  the  uttermost. 

lie  could  not  sleep.  He  could  not  keep  awake.  He  vibrated 
wretchedly  between  wakiug  and  sleeping.  His  head  was  enough 
unsettled  to  make  his  sleep  seem  spectral  and  his  waking  ghastly. 
It  was  out  of  one  of  his  painful  moments  of  delirious  sleep  that  he 
woke  thinking  he  heard  his  name  called.  There  by  his  side  stood 
Pete.  Barton  thought  at  first  that  it  was  only  another  vision  of 
dreams.  He  looked  at  him  without  speaking.  But  he  was  not 
long  left  in  doubt.    Pete  was  overjoyed  to  be  again  at  his  side. 

"Why,  Pete — is  it  really  you  ?  "  said  Barton,  putting  his  hands 
upon  his  brawny  arm,  to  make  sure. 

"  Yes,  sir,  it's  me — 'taint  nobody  else.  I  guess  I  owns  them 
feet,"  said  Pete,  extending  a  foot  which  would  answer  for  a  small 
boat;  the  shoe,  at  any  rate,  suggesting  some  such  idea. 

"  How  in  the  world  did  you  get  here  ?  did  you  drop  down  ?  I 
thought  it  was  a  dream.  I've  had  a  good  many  this  morning — 
but  this  is  the  best  dream  yet." 

"  TTal,  as  soon  as  you  didn't  come  back,  I  thought  somethin' 
had  to  be  done,  and  I  kind  o'  went  down  to  look  arter  ye,  and 
they  cotclied  me,  and  then  they  axed  me  who  I  was,  and  I  told 
'em  ray  name  was  Pete.  And  they  said  who  did  I  belong  to,  and 
I  told  'em  I  was  a  free  n'gger,  and  took  care  of  Gineral  Cathcart, 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  505 

find  tliey  larfed  considerable,  and  so  they  brought  me  to  jest  the 
right  place,  for  the  very  fust  thing  I  seed  this  moruin'  was  you." 

All  day  Lee  was  sending  back  his  trains,  his  wounded  and 
prisoners.  Cathcart  was  despatched  about  noon.  It  soon  began 
raining.  Pete  was  never  a  moment  away  from  Barton's  side.  As 
the  ambulance  in  which  he  was  conveyed  approached  the  pass 
through  the  South  Mountain,  Pete  grew  cheerful.  It  was  evident 
that  he  purposed  something  unusual.  He  said  in  a  low  tone  to 
Barton,  at  a  time  when  the  guards  were  a  little  in  advance — 
"  Gineral,  I  s'pose  you'd  jest  as  lieve  git  away  from  these  fellers, 
if  you  could? " 

"  There's  no  chance,  Pete.  Don't  you  see  the  guards  on  every 
side?" 

"But  I  want  you  to  be  ready,  and  if  I  see  a  chance,  you  must 
be  spry  as  you  kin  with  that  leg." 

A  heavy  rain  was  now  descending.  The  road  was  much  choked 
up,  and  the  trains  moved  with  difficulty.  It  grew  rapidly  dark. 
Either  side  of  the  pass  was  rugged  and  wild.  Pete  carried  himself 
in  a  dull  and  plodding  way,  as  if  he  had  not  a  thought  in  his  head. 
Yet  he  was  watching  sharply  the  soldiers,  the  character  of  the 
ground,  where  it  rose  steeply,  where  ravines  on  the  right  or  left 
showed  openings.  About  eight  o'clock  some  interruption  at  the 
front  caused  a  halt  and  a  little  confusion.  One  or  two  shots  were 
heard  in  the  distance.  Some  one  said  that  the  pass,  ahead,  was  in 
possession  of  the  Union  troops.  The  guards  near  the  ambulance 
stepped  forward  for  a  moment  to  speak  with  their  commander. 
Pete  looked  cautiously  about,  without  turning  his  head.  There 
were  no  soldiers  within  several  rods. 

To  the  right,  as  nearly  as  he  could  discover,  the  rocks  did  not 
rise  precipitously ;  but  there  seemed  some  kind  of  opening.  In 
fact,  a  small  stream  descended  and  crossed  the  road  not  far  below 
them,  and  it  was»some  damage  to  the  rude  bridge  that  had  checked 
the  column. 

Seizing  the  favorable  moment,  Pete  came  to  the  rear  of  the 
ambulance,  silently,  and  reached  in  his  long  arm.  He  gave  Barton 
one  or  two  emphatic  twitches,  as  much  as  to  say : 

"  ^ow  is  your  time." 

As  fast  as  his  wounded  leg  would  allow,  Barton  worked  his 
body  toward  the  back  of  the  vehicle.     No  sooner  had  his  legs 


506  Norwood ;  or^ 

hung  down  from  it  than  Pete,  turning  his  back  to  his  master,  toot 
Barton  on  his  shoulders  and  darted  instantly  into  the  thicket.  His 
movement  \ras  not  a  moment  too  soon.  The  driver,  seeing  his 
prisoner  gone,  cried  out.  The  soldiers,  catching  a  glimpse  of  Pete, 
fired  upon  him,  and  several  of  them  dashed  after  him.  Bat  at 
each  step  the  thicket  became  so  difficult  that  pursuit  was  soon 
given  up,  and  the  prisoners  escaped.  But  a  shot  had  reached  its 
mark.  Entering  Barton's  side  just  above  his  loins,  the  bullet  had 
traversed  the  inner  walls  of  the  abdomen,  and  came  out  at  the  front. 
Every  step  now  grew  more  difficult.  The  mountain  laurel  in 
spots  formed  such  barriers  that  it  could  not  well  be  penetrated. 
The  sound  of  the  stream  drew  Pete  toward  it,  and  he  groped  his 
way,  sometimes  in  it,  sometimes  along  its  rough  and  rocky  edge ; 
at  other  times,  turned  away  from  the  stream  by  some  insuperable 
olfetacle,  he  plunged  again  into  the  thicket.  Barton  grew  faint, 
and  would  fain  have  stopped  ;  but  Pete  determined  to  reach  some 
retreat  that  was  at  once  safe  and  of  better  accomodations.  The 
chances  seemed  poor.  The  heavy  spruce  boughs  swept  in  their 
faces,  shaking  off  showers  of  drops,  which  could  scarcely  add  to 
their  discomfort,  for  they  were  drenched  to  the  skin  already. 
None  but  Pete  could  have  proceeded  a  step  in  such  gloom  of  night, 
dark  by  reason  of  clouds,  and  still  darker  by  the  overshading  trees 
of  this  mountain  forest.  But,  though  Pete  often  stumbled,  was 
frequently  stopped,  and  with  incredible  labor,  got  along  but  a  little 
way,  yet  his  great  strength  enabled  him  to  hold  out  as  few  but  he 
could  have  done,  and  by  some  instinct  he  contrived  to  keep  his 
direction.  For  an  hour  he  had  toiled  on.  At  length  the  side  of 
the  brook  seemed  smoother.  But  it  ended  suddenly  against  al- 
most precipitous  rocks.  The  way  semed  effectually  shut  up, 
unless  he  could  find  a  path  by  the  channel  of  the  brook  itself. 
Carefully  laying  his  burden  down,  Pete  descended  to  the  stream 
and  followed  it  up.  He  found  that  it  now  issued  from  a  sort  of 
gateway,  by  a  series  of  cascades  which  were  quite  shallow,  and 
that  the  ascent  was  an  inclination  which  made  it  scarcely  more 
difficult  than  a  pair  of  stairs.  Returning  to  Barton,  he  bore  him 
carefully  up  the  steep  channel;  and,  at  its  top,  finding  the  brook 
more  level,  he  judged  that  he  had  reached  nearly  to  the  summit  of 
the  hills,  and  that  he  might  find  a  more  accessible  path  on  its  banks. 
There  seemed  no  forest  on  either  hand.     MovLug  away  from  tho 


Villa f/t  Life  in  New  England.  507 

stream,  and  groping  along  a  kind  of  gravelly  bed  in  search  of 
higher  ground  that  should  not  be  affected  by  the  overflow  of  the 
stream  that  might  be  expected,  should  the  rain  continue  all  night, 
Pete,  at  length,  reached  some  shelving  rocks,  which  furnished  not 
only  an  elevation  above  the  stream  but  a  partial  shelter  also 
Here  he  g'adly  laid  Barton  down.  Finding  that  hemlock  boughs 
were  hanging  over  him,  Pete  broke  off  an  armful  of  them  to  fur- 
nish his  master  with  something  softer  than  a  rock. 

The  hours  passed  slowly  and  gloomily.    Barton  could  net  sleep 
from  the  pain  of  his  wounds.    Pete  was  sleepless  from  anxiety 
about  his  charge.     The  rain  at  times  slackened.     Once  Pete  could 
discern  the  clouds  above  growing  thinner  and  letting  through  a 
faint  light  from  the  moon.     Midnight  passed,  although  they  could 
not  determine  the  time.    The  rains  redoubled    their  violence. 
Little  rills,  formed  above  them,  trickled  down  from  the  rocks. 
The  stream  began  to  sound  angrily.    Pete's  ear,  alive  to  evei-y 
sound,  noticed  with  alarm  the  change  from  the  shrill  sound  of 
shallow  water  rushing  over  rocks  to  a  deeper  tone,  as  if  the  stream 
were  growing  to  a  torrent.     The  roar  became  more  portentous. 
Pete  peered  anxiously  from  his  lurking  place  into  the  darkness. 
Nothing  could  he  see.    Another  hour  passed,  another  hour  of 
pain  to  Barton,  but  of  alarm  to  Pete.    The  faithful  soul  would  not 
impart  his  alarm  to  his  master.    He  said  to  himself,  "  Gosh-a- 
beely !  don't  I  wish  it  was  light !     I  don't  like  this  place— I  don't 
now.    May  be  we've  got  trapped !  "     His  thoughts  reverted  to  the 
ravine  at  Norwood,  where  Hey  wood  had  received  his  fall.    Should 
this  be  such  another,  a  mere  chamber  in  the  rocks,  it  might  sud- 
denly be  filled  by  the  rising  torrent  and  become  a  rockbound 
reservoir.      He  listened!     Could  it  be  that  he  was  hearing  the 
water  just  beneath  him?     It  seemed  so.     Yet  the  roar  of  the 
stream  had  risen  to  such  a  pitch  of  sound  as  well  nigh  to  drown 
all  other  sounds.    He  reached  down  his  foot,  and  drew"  it  up  again 
quickly.     The  stream  icaa  rushing  along  swiftly  by  the  very  rocks 
on  which  they  lay  !     He  waited  a  half  hour,  and  sounded  again. 
The  distance  was  lessening!     The  water  was  rising!     He  moved 
cautiously— first  in  one  direction,  and  then  in  another— to  find  on 
every  side  that  they  were  shut  in  !     A  horror  began  to  fill  Pete's 
soul.     He  had  brought  Barton  hither  to    be   drowned!     Once 
alarmed,  he  had  no  resource  in  reflection  to  restrain  and  moderate 


508  Norwood ;  or, 

it.  The  poor  fellow  wept.  Speak  he  would  not,  for  fear  of  alarm- 
ing Barton,  though  he  might  have  shouted  without  danger  of 
being  heard  in  the  thunder  of  the  cataract ! 

He  reached  his  hand  over  to  see  if  the  water  was  rising,  and  to 
his  horror  it  was  even  then  lapping  the  very  edge  of  the  rock. 
The  foam  flitted  past  him,  like  specks  of  faint  light.  It  struck  him 
that  he  had  seen  no  foam  before !  It  must  be  growing  toward 
morning !  Oh,  if  it  were  but  light !  To  be  drowned  in  darkness, 
to  be  caught  like  rats  in  a  trap,  and  made  way  with,  when,  per- 
haps, if  one  could  only  see,  there  might  be  a  way  of  escape  hardly 
a  step  off!  Poor  Pete  gained  a  slight  hope  from  the  sight  of  the 
waters.  But  the  morning  rose  slowly  and  the  waters  rose  fast. 
It  must  be  soon  or  never. 

The  light  dawned  at  length.  Pete  began  to  see  the  walls  of 
rock  on  either  side.  About  two  hundred  yards  up,  the  stream 
came  pelting  down  with  a  tremendous  plunge,  and  with  that  mass- 
ive movement  that  indicates  great  depth  of  water.  Across,  from 
side  to  side,  the  chamber  of  rocks  was  filled  by  the  stream,  which 
was  still  hastening  wildly,  madly,  toward  the  ledge  over  which 
Pete  had  ascended. 

The  rocks  on  which  they  were  perched  had  fallen  out  of  the 
walls  on  that  side,  being  sprung  from  then-  original  place  by  the 
frosts.  The  place  was  visible  from  which  they  had  been  moved. 
It  was  like  a  huge  step  in  the  side  of  the  cliff,  about  six  feet  above 
their  heads.  Could  that  be  reached,  immediate  danger,  at  least, 
would  be  over.  From  the  crevices  of  the  rock  grew  some  shrubs ; 
but  an  old  hemlock,  that  seemed  as  if  it  had  once  had  the  rheu- 
matism, which  left  all  its  joints  swollen  and  twisted,  projected 
from  the  sides  of  the  rocks,  almost  at  right  angles.  To  catch  the 
boughs  and  swing  himself  into  the  tree,  to  spring  from  it  upon 
the  rocks  where  the  block  upon  which  Barton  lay  had  once 
been,  was  but  the  work  of  a  moment.  But  how  to  get  Barton 
there?    He  could  help  himself  but  very  little. 

The  need  was  pressing.  The  water  was  running  clear  over  the 
surface  of  the  rock.  Pete  descended,  helped  Barton  to  his  feet, 
placed  him  in  a  selected  spot,  then  springing  again  into  the  hem- 
lock, and  reaching  down,  he  took  Barton  under  the  armpits  and 
drew  him  up  upon  the  trank.  The  tree  quivered.  Should  its  roots 
give  way  it  was  all  over  with  them  !     Pete  did  not  wait  for  inspec- 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  509 

tion.  It  was  this  or  nothing.  The  hardest  feat,  yet  to  do.  Moving 
back  along  the  trunk,  he  came  to  the  point  least  distant  from  the 
rock.  Seizing  Barton  with  his  left  arm,  he  made  one  bound  into 
which  he  put  every  particle  of  his  strength,  reached  the  edge  of 
the  rock,  wavered,  reeled,  and  fell,  but  fell  forward,  and  was  safe 
at  last  1 


CHAPTER    LIV. 

A   XIGHT  AND  A   DAT   IX  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

The  first  step  Lad  been  taken.  But  it  might  be  called  a  step 
away  from  danger,  ratlier  than  a  step  toward  safety.  They  were 
safe  at  least  from  the  peril  of  waters.  On  looking  back,  one  now 
conld  by  the  morning  light  see  into  what  a  dangerous  position 
they  had  wandered.  It  was  a  narrow  ravine,  cloven  through 
solid  rock,  apparently  by  some  convulsive  agency  rather  than  by 
the  slow  wearing  of  waters.  When  the  stream  was  low  it  occu- 
pied but  a  small  space.  »But  heavy  rains  brought  down  from  the 
mountain  sides  such  sheets  of  water  as  had  the  power  suddenly 
to  swell  the  rill  to  a  torrent,  and  as  the  exit  was  quite  narrow,  the 
waters,  if  rains  were  violent  or  continued,  set  back  and  filled  up 
the  whole  space. 

The  place  on  which  Pete  now  stood  with  his  almost  helpless 
burden,  was  situated  at  the  mouth  of  what  in  a  thousand  years 
might  become  a  lateral  ravine,  sloping  toward  the  gulf  from 
which  they  had  just  escaped.  There  was  a  depression  in  the 
rocks,  a  kind  of  rude  channel  that  fortunately  did  not  pursue  a 
straight,  steep  course,  but  zigzagged  in  such  a  manner  that  a  very 
strong  and  agile  man  might  climb  to  the  sumrnit.  Had  Pete  only 
himself  to  rescue  he  would  have  gone  up  almost  as  quickly  as  a 
crow  could.  But  his  own  safety  without  the  rescue  of  Barton, 
would  have  been  a  great  disaster  to  his  simple,  faithful  soul. 

Laying  his  burden  carefully  down,  Pete  began  to  explore  the 
way.  He  soon  ascended  to  the  summit.  But  there  were  points 
where  even  Pete  Sawmill,  with  the  strength  of  three  men,  could 
not  have  conveyed  himself  and  Barton  too.  In  so  far  as  mere 
lifting  was  concerned,  Pete  could  have  carried  Barton  up  as  easily  as 
a  bear  could  carry  her  cub  in  her  mouth.  But  to  lift  and  spring 
at  the  same  time,  with  the  dead  weight  of  a  sick  man  upon  him, 
transcended  even  Pete's  power.  Could  Barton  have  helped  him- 
self enough  to  cling  around  Pete,  it  would  have  bettered  matters. 


Village  Life  in  New  England  oil 

But  the  severe  strain  of  battle  for  two  days  and  two  nights,  his 
wounds,  and  the  exposure  to  cold  and  rain  among  the  rocks  that 
night,  had  now  rendered  Barton  qnite  helpless,  and  Pete  wa3 
even  afraid  that  he  might  die  on  his  hands. 

After  surveying  the  several  sides  and  selecting  the  most  feasi- 
ble, Pete  returned  to  Barton  and  slowly  and  with  extreme  diffi- 
culty conveyed  him,  little  by  little,  to  a  point  more  than  half-way 
to  the  summit.  Here  he  was  confronted  by  an  obstacle  that 
seemed  likely  to  stop  him.  On  every  side  but  one  the  rocks  were 
insuperable.  But  on  the  right  a  perpendicular-faced  rock  was 
laced  with  roots,  and  overhung  with  the  branches  of  some 
stunted  trees  in  a  way  that,  if  Pete  could  but  have  the  use  of  both 
arms  and  feet,  he  could  easily  ascend.  But  how  to  hold  on  to 
Barton  and  climb  with  but  one  hand ! 

At  length,  Pete's  ingenuity  vanquished  that  difficulty.  Barton 
seemed  like  a  dying  man.  He  moaned  w^hen  any  violent  exertion 
stirred  up  his  pains.  He  was  quite  helpless.  Pete  first  tried  by 
passing  his  sash  about  him  to  lash  Barton  to  his  own  breast.  That 
would  not  do.  He  then  attempted  to  loop  the  sash  under  Barton's 
arms,  and  to  pass  the  other  part  over  his  own  neck.  Both  endeavors 
failed  for  the  same  reason.  Barton  hung  down  so  low  that  he  was 
quite  unmanageable.  At  length,  an  idea  struck  Pete.  "VHiether 
it  was  an  instinct  derived  from  his  pre-existent  state,  wherein 
Pete  must  have  been  a  stalwart  bear,  or  whether  he  remembered 
that  animals  carry  their  young  in  their  mouths,  or  whether,  still 
more  probably,  he  remembered  the  pennies  which  he  had  earned 
(and  drank  up)  in  iN'orwood,  for  lifting  men  off  from  the  ground 
with  his  teeth,  he  determined  to  bring  a  new  force  into  play  that 
should  still  leave  him  the  full  use  of  his  hands  and  feet.  "Winding 
the  sash  tightly  round  and  round  Barton,  close  under  his  arms,  he 
seized  it  with  his  mouth,  and,  straightening  himself  up,  he  found 
that  Cathcart's  feet  fairly  cleared  the  ground.  He  now,  with  his 
arms  and  legs  free,  could  without  difficulty  climb  the  rock.  TVhile 
Pete  was  thus  occupied,  two  pair  of  eyes  were  peering  out  from 
above  upon  him,  with  an  expression  that  boded  no  good. 

"  What  dat,  Sam  ?     Look  a  dar— what  dat,  I  say  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Lord,  I  tink  he  be  bar  !  " 

"  Dat  bar's  got  a  big  cub,  den — dat's  what  I  say !  Mighty 
strong  mouf !  " 


612  Norwood ;  OTi 

"  Oh,  lord,  lord  !  I  tink  it  be  debbil-^cotcht  a  sinner — gwine 
to  eat  liini  up — oh,  lord-a-marcy  !  " 

"Shut  up  nigger!  I  know  what  ee  be!  it's  a  reb.  Don't  you 
see  his  clo's  ?  He's  reb  ossifer  !  Git  me  some  rocks,  nigger !  If 
he  tote  dat  feller  under  here,  I  smash  'im  head !  " 

Pete  had  come  to  the  very  place  designated,  and  our  story 
would  have  had  an  abrupt  termination,  had  not  the  more  intelli- 
gent of  the  two  negroes  above  observed  something  in  the  uniform, 
as  Pete  laid  down  his  burden,  that  looked  less  like  a  rebel  than  he 
at  first  supposed.     "Whereupon,  a  parley  ensued. 

"  I  say,  dar,  you  better  stop !  " 

Pete,  much  surprised,  looked  in  every  direction,  at  this  sum- 
mons ;  but  could  see  no  one. 

"  Who's  that  ? "  he  said ;  and  instantly  imagining  help  at 
hand,  he  added:  "  "Where  are  you?  Jist  come  and  give  us  a  lift, 
will  ye  ?     I'm  afeered  the  gineral  will  die." 

Two  woolly  heads  protruded  from  the  bushes,  on  the  summit 
above  him,  the  one  looking  cautiously  and  the  other  timidly  down 
upon  him. 

"  Who  be  dat  f    W'at  you  got  dar  ?     Rebel  ? " 

"  No,  it  is  Gineral  Cathcart  of  the  Union  army.  We  got  away 
from  the  rebs  last  night.  He's  badly  wounded.  Can't  ye  give  a 
fellow  a  Mft  now  ? " 

"  You  wait  now,  I  tell  ye !  Sam,  you  go  for  Massa  Jacob, 
quick." 

It  was  not  more  than  ten  minutes,  though  to  Pete  it  seemed 
hours,  before  Jacob  appeared,  in  the  form  of  a  comely  young  man 
of  about  twenty-two  years  of  age.  His  hair  was  long ;  his  hat 
something  wide  of  brim,  though  rather  rough  ;  but  his  speech  at 
once  bespoke  him  of  the  excellent  and  honorable  family  of  Friends, 
or,  as  the  world  will  have  it,  Quakers. 

He  needed  no  explanations.  Union  or  rebel,  a  wounded  man 
must  not  die  unhelped.  Despatching  one  of  his  men  for  some 
halters,  he  soon  had  made  a  line  long  enough  and  strong  enough 
to  lift  Barton  up.  Pete  was  at  the  summit  quite  as  soon.  A  walk 
of  about  five  minutes  conveyed  them  to  a  rude  hut,  built  originally 
by  charcoal  burners,  but  now  patched  a  little  and  made  tenantable. 
Pete  speedily  told  his  story,  and  learned,  on  the  other  hand,  that 
he  had  stumbled  upon  a  hiding  place  of  cattle  and  horses.   Within 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  513 

a  stone's  throw  there  were  a  hundred  and  more  cows  and  oxen, 
and  some  three  score  fine  horses,  the  half  of  the  neat  stock  and 
two-thirds  of  the  horses  belonging  to  Paul  Hetherington,  the 
father  of  the  comelj  youth  who  had  rescued  them.  Several  con- 
trabands, who  during  the  war  had  escaped  from  Virginia,  and 
who  had  found  employment  on  Hetherington's  farm,  were  more 
than  willing  to  retreat  into  the  mountains  with  the  cattle,  for 
reasons  of  their  own  safety,  while  the  rebel  army  remained  in  the 
valley. 

Jacob  Hetherington,  fortunately,  had  some  little  medical  knowl- 
edge. He  had  been  much  among  the  wounded  at  the  battle  of 
Antietam.  He  had  already  conveyed  to  Gettysburg,  on  two 
several  days,  a  load  of  various  comforts  for  the  wounded.  But, 
sorely  to  his  regret,  he  could  not  devote  himself  to  the  work  of 
humanity,  being  needed  at  home  to  superintend  this  new  depart- 
ment in  the  mountains. 

Barton's  wounds  were  at  once  cleansed  and  bound  afresh. 
Spirits  he  had  none;  but  hot  coftee  was  soon  prepared.  The 
young  Friend  put  his  own  coat  on  Barton,  wrapping  himself  in  a 
blanket. 

It  was  full  time  for  Barton  Cathcart  to  receive  some  succor. 
"Wounded  twice  upon  Friday  afternoon,  his  weary  progress  on 
Saturday,  the  additional  wound  on  making  his  escape,  the  cold 
rains,  the  rude  kindness  of  Pete,  by  which  he  was  dragged  through 
bushes  and  over  rocks,  without  nourishment,  and  without  stimu- 
lants, all  this  had  brought  him  down  to  such  weakness  that  he 
seemed  likely  to  sink  away  of  mere  exhaustion.  His  pulse  was 
very  feeble,  his  skin  cold,  and  his  whole  system  very  low.  Jacob 
Hetherington  was  alarmed.  The  wound  upon  his  abdomen  was 
likely  to  be  mortal.  If  the  ball  had  sunk  deep  within,  he  would 
die  within  a  few  hours,  and  all  his  appearance  indicated  the  ap- 
proach of  this  catastrophe.  Even  if  no  interior  part  had  been  sun- 
dered, much  was  to  be  feared  from  inflammation,  and- he  was  in 
no  state  to  bear  a  peritoneal  fever. 

Jacob  Hetherington  was  a  rigid  temperance  man,  as  also  was 
his  father,  and  the  young  man  presented  such  a  wholesome  cheek, 
a  skin  so  pure,  an  eye  so  unstained  with  morbid  blood,  that  he  was 
a  walking  commendation  of  abstemiousness.  Albeit  not  given  to 
violence,  yet,  if  any  one  had  doubted  whether  a  "total  abstainer" 


614  Norwood;  or, 

conld  be  strong,  he  had  only  to  repair  to  some  green  and  grassy 
spot  for  a  wrestling  bont,  and  every  doubt  would  disappear! 
Jacob  was  well  satisfied  with  his  own  principles  and  practice ;  and 
yet,  when  he  saw  Barton's  condition  he  sorely  regretted  that  somo 
body  of  an  opposite  view  was  not  in  his  camp.  He  had  strictly 
forbidden  the  use  of  intoxicating  drinks  among  his  father's  hired 
men,  and  now,  when  he  would  have  given  a  river  full  of  cold  water 
for  a  pint  of  whiskey,  not  a  drop  was  to  be  had.  Jacob  questioned 
Pete  on  the  subject. 

"  Wal,  I  brought  a  flask  along,  but  when  I  got  in  the  rebel 
camp  the  fellers  went  through  me  mighty  quick,  and  one  on  'em 
pulled  out  my  flask,  and  sez  he,  '  Ah,  nigger,  this  pocket  pistol  is 
very  dangerous — might  go  oflT.'     I  never  seed  it  agin." 

"I  am  afraid  that  your  master  will  sufier  for  wijnt  of  stimu- 
lants.    He  may  die  for  want  of  a  gill  of  brandy." 

Pete  was  a  good  deal  troubled. 

"  Brandy  ?  Why  don't  you  give  'im  whiskey  ?  Our  folks  give 
'em  whiskey  when  the  brandy  gives  out." 

"  But  I  have  no  whiskey.  There  is  none  in  camp.  None  of  my 
men  ever  touch  it." 

"  S'pose  you  jest  ask  'em.  Mebbe  some  on  'em  got  it  acciden- 
tal like." 

Jacob  had  no  hope  in  the  matter.  His  orders  had  been  per- 
emptory. He  knew  that  his  men  would  obey.  Besides,  he  did 
not  believe  that  they  could  use  whiskey  and  he  not  perceive  it. 
Yet  he  called  his  men. 

"Have  any  of  you  got  a  little  whiskey?  " 

They  all  looked  horror-struck  ! — ]!To,  none  of  them  ! 

"  This  gentleman  will  die  on  our  hands,  I  fear,  unless  I  can  pro- 
cure some  immediate  relief.  Sam,  I  think  you  had  better  go  down 
to  the  settlement — you  might  even  take  one  of  the  colts — and  get 
a  flask  of  whiskey.     I  will  give  you  a  dollar  for  it." 

Great  as  was  Sam's  aversion  to  whiskey,  he  had  a  yet  more 
terrible  dread  of  rebel  soldiers.  Any  thing  rather  than  venture 
down  where  he  might  be  caught.  Indeed,  the  urgency  of  the 
case  awoke  in  Sam's  memory  something  which  he  had  entirely, 
forgotten. 

"  Why,  sah,  I  jis  'member  dat  Dutchman,  las'  night,  had  a  bot- 
tle.    I  see  him  drink  suthin',  and  den  he  hide  'em  in  de  rock.    He 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England.  515 

tt'snted  me  to  drink  —  'course  I  wouldn't,  'case  I  knew  'twas 
wblskej. 

Pete  was  impatient. 

"  What's  the  use,  you  nigger,  in  Ijin'  so  ?  If  you've  got  a  bot- 
tle, you  go  git  it — pretty  quick,  I  say  !  " 

Pete's  words  were  far  more  efficacious  than  Jacob's.  For  Pete 
had  had  a  pull  at  that  bottle  already,  and  knew  its  quality.  His 
only  doubt  respected  the  amount  of  contents  left.  All  three  of 
the  colored  men  had  tasted  it,  and  none  of  them  hurried  them- 
selves. 

Sam  soon  appeared  bearing  a  junk  bottle  in  which  a  cob  served 
as  a  cork.  He  seemed  to  be  an  entire  stranger  to  it.  He  took  out 
the  stopper,  and  looked  in  to  see  if  there  was  any  thing  there.  He 
held  it  up  to  the  sky  for  the  same  purpose.     He  smelt  of  it. 

"I  guess  um  whiskey — spects  so!  mighty  bad  stuff,"  said  Sam, 
with  the  most  virtuous  look  of  disgust  at  this  dangerous  sub- 
stance. "  Massa  nebber  let  a  nigga  have  um — put  de  debbU  in  do 
nigga." 

The  grave  smile  that  lay  upon  Jacob's  face  indicated  that  he 
had  his  own  opinion  of  this  new  miracle  of  whiskey  from  the  rocks, 
and  of  the  story  about  the  Dutchman  hiding  it  there,  but  he 
eagerly  took  it,  turned  out  its  contents — alas !  but  slender — into  a 
tin  cup  of  coffee. 

"  Better  than  none,  but  far  from  sufficient.  I  would  give  thee 
another  dollar  for  a  bottle  full." 

His  master's  wishes  were  a  law  to  Sam — with  such  sanction 
appended ;  he  renewed  his  search,  and  faith  and  diligence  were 
rewarded.  That  Dutchman  had  hid  another  bottle  in  the  same 
place  !  but,  cunningly  as  he  had  secreted  them,  Sam  found  them, 
— showing  that  he  had  the  natural  gifts  for  a  detective  under  the 
excise  law. 

As  soon  as  Barton  had  been  attended  to,  Pete  left  him  in  charge 
of  Jacob  Hetherington,  while  he  himself  went  with  the  plantation 
negroes  to  view  the  cattle.  Pete's  great  size,  his  lofty  manners 
toward  his  humble  attendants,  the  awfulness  of  that  knowledge 
which  they  thought  he  possessed,  served  to  make  him  an  object 
of  hardly  less  than  reverence. 

Descending  rapidly  from  the  point  where  the  cabin  was,  they 
came  to  a  kind  of  basin,  sheltered  on  all  sides  by  ridges.    It  might 


516  Norwood;  or, 

once  have  been  a  lake.  From  springs  breaking  out  here,  ran  that 
stream  v.hich  had  nearly  swallowed  np  Pete  during  the  night. 
And  the  reason  of  its  sudden  rise  was  soon  apparent.  All  the  rain 
falling  on  these  slopes  was  conveyed  as  by  a  tunnel  to  the  one  out- 
let, and  an  hour's  hard  rain  was  enough  to  set  the  brook  a  roaring ; 
while  a  half  day's  rain  sent  down  through  the  narrow  defile  such 
torrents  of  water  as  stirred  it  to  a  rage  and  a  violence  awful  to 
behold ! 

In  this  mountain  basin  were  collected  about  a  hundred  head  of 
cattle,  Paul  Hetherington's  and  his  neighbors.  Rude  divisions 
were  attempted  to  keep  them  somewhat  separate,  lest  being  stran- 
gers they  should  punish  each  other.  For,  cattle  partake  of  human 
feelings  in  this  respect,  that  they  quarrel  with  all  that  do  not  be- 
long to  their  barnyard.  In  spite  of  short  commons  they  looked 
remarkably  well.  A  rebel  quartermaster  would  have  blessed  his 
luck  could  he  have  plumped  down  on  this  mountain  nest ! 

But  it  was  the  horses  that  gave  to  Pete  his  chief  delight.  They 
were  hitched  singly  or  in  pairs  along  every  little  level  spot,  on 
terraces,  and  in  snug  coves.  Two  teams  of  huge  gray  Conestoga 
horses  ;  a  span  of  sorrels,  with  light  manes  and  tails,  with  a  brown 
stripe  along  from  withers  to  rump ;  a  pair  of  blood-bay  mares, 
daintily  built,  and  yet  strong  and  serviceable ;  a  score  of  brawny, 
hard-featured  work  horses,  eight  fine  brood  mares,  a  pen  with  'five 
or  six  fine  colts,  two  full-blood  Messenger  mares,  and  a  full-blood 
stallion,  between  chestnut  and  sorrel,  with  white  feet,  and  with  a 
disposition  not  the  most  amiable.  He  seemed  angry  at  his  rude 
quarters.  He  was  savage  as  a  Eoman  exile.  As  Pete  came  toward 
him,  Old  Duke  lashed  out  at  him  in  a  style  that  Pete  regarded  as 
an  invitation  to  a  funeral,  and  which  would  have  led  to  one  if 
Pete  had  not  been  on  his  guard. 

But  that  horse  was  never  foaled  that  Pete  feared.     He  passed 
toward  his  head,  and  though  the  vicious  beauty  laid  back  his  ears 
till  they  seemed  to  sink  into  his  head,  and  showed  an  ugly  muzzle,  ■ 
Pete  fixed  his  eye  full  on  him,  spoke  in  low,  decided  tones,  moved 
quietly  but  firmly  right  up  to  him,  and  in  a  minute  the  stallion  ate 
out  of  his  hand,  and  whinnied  when  Pete  left  him.     If  his  com 
panions  had  reverenced  Pete  before,  they  worshipped  him  now 
This  fascination  which  he  seemed  to  exercise  over  the  animal  king- 
dom addressed  itself  to  Sam's  understanding  far  more  effectively 


Villa je  Life  in  New  England'.  51*/ 

tlian  if  Pete  had  spoken  ten  moclern  languages  and  built  St.  Peter's 
church. 

The  mountain  air  was  peculiarly  exhilarating  to  Pete.  The 
longer  he  stayed  with  these  contrabands  the  more  amiable  he  be- 
came, and  when  he  returned  to  the  cabin  after  an  hour's  absence 
he  was  extremely  gracious;  he  laughed,  and  chuckled,  and  sput- 
tered by  turns,  in  a  manner  which,  in  any  other  person,  would 
have  indicated  an  over  dose  of  whiskey.  It  could  not  be,  how- 
ever, that  Tom  had  secreted  any  more  mountain  dew;  for 
Jacob  said  that  his  men  were  all  of  them  temperate,  except,  of 
course,  that  unlucky  Dutchman,  who  had  gone  down  to  prepare 
fodder  and  grain  to  be  brought  up  in  the  night,  and  on  whose 
shoulders  Sam  put  all  the  blame  of  concealing  whiskey !  At  any 
rate,  Pete  fell  asleep,  as  well  he  might,  after  the  toils  of  the  two 
days  and  nights  which  he  had  borne  in  so  stalwart  a  manner. 

Jacob  Hetherington  had  grave  anxieties.  He  appreciated  Bar- 
ton's critical  condition.  It  was  not  possible  in  this  place  to  render 
him  such  service  as  he  instantly  needed.  He  determined,  there- 
fore, to  get  him  down  to  his  father's  house  as  soon  as  possible. 
As  a  first  step,  he  set  to  work  to  learn  whether  the  rebel  army  had 
left  the  neighborhood  and  cleared  the  pass.  It  was  but  a  mile 
across  from  his  cattle  camp  to  the  pass  through  which  Lee's  army 
were  retreating.  The  stream  whose  course  Pete  had  followed  did 
not  run  at  right  angles  with  the  pass,  but,  after  being  followed  a 
half  mile  back,  it  came  from  the  right  and  ran  nearly  parallel  with 
the  road,  so  that,  though  Pete  had  travelled  several  miles,  the 
point  which  he  reached  was  not  more  than  a  mile  from  the  road. 
On  a  careful  reconnoissance,  Jacob  concluded  that  it  would  not 
be  safe  to  venture  down  much  before  sundown.  As  Ewell  did  not 
leave  the  lines  before  Gettysburg  till  about  noon  of  that  day,  his 
corps  still  stretched  along  the  roads  and  were  now  entering  the 
defile. 

A  little  before  sundown,  Pete  was  roused  from  sleep  into  a 
state  of  waking  bewilderment.  He  seemed  to  have  forgot  every 
thing  and  every  body,  and  was  in  a  maze  of  wonder  at  his  strange 
surroundings. 

The  sight  of  Barton  restored  his  consciousness,  and  he  gradually 
came  to  his  recollections.  A  rude  litter  had  been  constructed. 
Halter  ropes  and  odd  straps  were  woven  back  and  forth  as  a  sub- 


618  Norwood ;  or, 

stitute  for  a  canvas  bottom.  A  rough  blanket  was  laid  upon  it, 
and  Barton  laid  thereon.  The  two  black  servants  carried  him  the 
first  pai't  of  the  descent,  and  then,  thej  returning  to  their  charge, 
Jacob  and  Pete  took  their  places.  "When  they  reached  the  cleared 
fields  it  was  dusk.  Avoiding  the  roads,  Jacob,  who  knew  the 
whole  region  familiarly,  moved  across  lots,  by  ways  both  nearer 
and  more  obscure.  It  was  full  dark  when  they  entered  the  avenue 
leading  up  to  the  wide-faced  stone  house  where  Paul  Hethering- 
ton  lived.  As  they  entered  the  dwelling,  the  change  seemed  to 
Pete  like  a  translation  from  purgatory  to  heaven.  Paul  Hether- 
ington  stepped  forward, — a  tall  man,  strongly  built,  with  a  large 
face,  long  between  the  mouth  and  eyebrows,  (as  every  grand  face 
must  be,)  a  high  and  wide  brow,  but  wider  than  high,  hair — now 
changing  color — worn  long,  an  eye  that  was  blue  when  he  was 
calm,  but  gray  when  it  kindled ;  and,  altogether,  such  a  fine,  large 
man  as  would,  in  any  company,  excite  admiration  and  respect. ' 

His  face  testified  by  its  texture  to  right  living ;  by  its  whole 
frame  and  shape  to  largeness  of  nature ;  by  its  eye  and  brow  to 
sagacity  and  thoughtfulness ;  by  its  mouth  to  a  suppressed  humor-- 
ousness.  Here  was  stuff  for  a  statesman.  He  might  have  been 
an  archbishop.  Had  he  been  a  general,  his  very  presence  would 
have  been  worth  half  an  army.  He  might  have  made  any  thing. 
He  was  only  a  Quaker.    Yet  one  could  not  help  saying : 

"What  a  pity  that  such  a  man  should  have  no  sphere  worthy 
of  his  nature! " 

The  proper  reply  would  have  been  : 

"What  a  happy  land  that  can  afford  to  have  such  men  for  pri- 
vate citizens !  " 

Martha  Hetherington,  his  wife,  about  fifty-five  years  of  age, 
was  the  very  and  proper  wife  for  Paul  Hetherington.  She  was  of 
rather  full  habit;  yet  her  face  was  pale,  but  not  cadaverous. 
Every  feature  was  shaped  finely,  and  yet  the  whole  face  conveyed 
the  impression  of  largeness  rather  than  fineness. 

She  was  not  handsome,  though  every  feature  was  good.  There 
was  a  sort  of  independence  in  the  members  of  her  face.  Each 
feature,  as  it  were,  kept  house  for  itself.  But  that  harmony  and 
sympathy  which  was  originally  denied  to  the  physical  form  of 
her  countenance  had  gradually  been  supplied  by  the  expression 
which,  year  by  year,  crept  over  it.      One  would  be  apt  to  say. 


Village  Life  in  Neio  England,  519 

"  That  is  the  handsomest  homely  foce  that  I  ever  saw."  Three 
childi*en  blessed  their  household.  Jacob  was  the  youngest,  and 
the  only  son.  The  eldest  daughter  was  like  her  mother,  and  had 
married  and  settled  in  life ;  the  other,  resembling  her  father,  was 
living  at  home.  Two  other  daughters  there  had  been,  but  they 
were  no  longer  living. 

While  we  are  telling  you  all  these  things,  you  may  be  sure 
they  were  not  standing  still,  listening  to  their  own  praises.  The 
best  room  was  always  prepared.  Into  a  bed,  whose  linen  shone 
like  snow,  Barton  was  laid  by  the  strong  arms  of  Paul  the  father 
and  Jacob  the  son. 

The  room  opened  out  of  the  family  room,  and  so  was  the  very 
room  for  sickness,  which  loves  to  be  cheered  by  hearing  the  soffc 
sounds  of  family  life  without  being  in  their  very  midst. 


28 


CHAPTER  LV. 

THE     SUKP  RISE. 

It  is  not  given  to  all  birds  alike  to  soar  tigh,  or  to  continue  loug 
upon  the  -wing.  The  -wiug  must  be  shapely,  the  muscle  must  be 
ample,  the  nerve  strong,  if  a  bird  is  to  hang  long  in  the  air  without 
weariness.  Small  birds,  with  short  and  blunt  wings,  are  always 
near  the  ground.  Quails  and  partridges,  grouse  and  woodcock  love 
the  earth,  and  run  upon  the  ground  with  more  delight  than  they 
fly  in  the  air.  Therefore  their  enemies  easily  find  them  and  their 
nests — the  rat,  the  weasel,  the  polecat,  and  the  swine,  and  other 
hunters  many.  Small  birds,  seed-eating, — finches,  sparrows, 
thrushes, — build  low  and  fly  low.  Their  courses  are  neither  wide 
nor  daring.  They  hop  along  the  twigs  in  hedges,  or  hover,  gig- 
gling and  simple-hearted,  in  low-branched  trees.  In  fence-rows, 
cats  lurk  for  them.  In  the  woods,  small  hawks,  blue-jays,  and 
shrikes  devour  them.  Even  darkness  does  not  cover  them  from 
the  goggle-eyed  owl,  whose  soft  wings  are  as  noiseless  as  death. 
Then  come  bolder  birds,  that  seldom  descend  below  the  tops  of  for- 
ests, that  live  high  up  above  mousing  enemies  and  are  more  familiar 
with  the  sun  than  with  the  shade.  And  higher  than  all  ar«  the 
long- winged  birds,  that  hang  over  the  ocean,  that  beat  about  in 
storms, — gulls ;  petrels.  Or,  still  higher,  falcons,  condors,  eagles, — 
that  brood  upon  the  sunlight  and  lie  upon  the  mere  air  as  if  it  were 
water  under  their  breasts  and  they  were  fowl  swinging  on  the  sea. 
In  these  glorious  solitudes  they  live  secure.  Is  oises  never  rise  so 
high ;  storms  and  thunder  sound  below  them.  The  sun  comes 
earlier  to  them,  and  lingers  later.  Their  days  are  longer.  There 
are  no  fences  there  parcelling  out  the  great  domain.  !S'o  trees  or 
forests  shadow  the  empyrean  ;  no  mountains  divide  it,  nor  rivers 
water  it.  Only  the  Sun  himself  inhabits  there — sohtary,  though 
the  father  of  multitudes, — dropping  down  showers  of  light,  which 
he  does  not  see,  and  giving  life  to  infinite  broods  that  never  knew, 
nor  are  known  of  their  father,  who  through  ages  is  giving  and  for- 
getting, begetting  and  forsaking,  creating  and  devouring.  And 
yet,  no  wing  was  ever  framed  that  could  soar  forever.  The  gull 
at  last  alights.     The  falcon  builds  a  nest,  and  seeks  it.    The  eagle 


ViUa(je  Life  in  New  E a  (/land.  521 

has  a  home  among  the  rocks.  Only  man's  thoughts  rise  higliei 
than  the  eagle's  wing,  higher  than  the  sun,  and  walk  in  tlie  celes- 
tial city,  where  is  no  night,  nor  weariness,  nor  sorrow.  But  even 
Faith  itself  may  not  always  abide  in  these  high  delights.  The 
heart  must  come  back  to  its  nest. 


Through  all  of  Sunday,  Rose  Wentworth  soared  up  above  all 
trouble.  The  sun  went  down  without  bringing  darkness  to  her. 
But,  on  the  sixth,  while  the  camps  were  waking  up,  and  Meade's 
dilatory  army  began  to  creep  out  in  pursuit.  Rose  chanced,  some- 
w^hat  after  mid-day,  to  meet  Col.  Frank  Esel,  who  was  hurrying  for- 
ward to  overtake  his  regiment. 

"Miss  Wentworth — a  thousand  blessings  on  you  !  I  knew  that 
you  hovered  somewhere  about  here.  General  Cathcart  told  me  of 
your  presence.  By  the  way,  you  have  heard  that  he  was  wounded 
and  taken?" 

"  I  heard  that  he  had  fallen— that  he  was  dead !  " 

"  Dead,  Miss  Wentworth  ?  dead  ?  Upon  my  word,  you're  mis- 
taken! it  mu^t  be  a  false  report.  I  was  not  far  from  him  in  the 
fight.  I  saw  him  go  in,  and  he  and  a  dozen  more  men  were  gob- 
bled up.  But  he  was  alive,  and  wounded,  and  a  prisoner — I  know ; 
for  several  of  the  men  escaped  during  the  night,  who  saw  him 
within  Lee's  lines,  and,  though  little  able  to  walk,  yet  he  was  not 
apparently  wounded  dangerously." 

KRose  had  been  caught  up  by  a  whirlwind,  or  swept  down  in 
the  current  of  the  over-full  Rock  creek,  she  could  not  have  been 
more  whirled  about  and  helpless  than  she  was  at  this  astounding 
news. 

"  Not  dead !  —not  dead !  —alive  ?— a  prisoner  ?— alive !  Oh,  do 
not  say  such  things  !  It  cannot  be !  Alive  ?— alive  ?  O  my  soul, 
be  still !     Do  not  believe  it !  " 

"  Cousin  Rose,"  said  Esel,  moved  by  the  intensity  of  her  man- 
ner, "  I  do  truly  assure  you  that  Barton  is  alive,  unless  something 
has  befallen  him  since  he  reached  the  enemy's  lines.  He  was  alive 
and  not  dangerously  wounded  on  Saturday,  that  I  certainly  know; 
and  there  is  no  reason  to  think  that  harm  has  befallen  him  since. 
I  truly  wish  you  joy,  and  am  heartily  glad  to  surprise  you  with 
such  good  news.  God  bless  you,  my  dear  cousin,"  and  with  that 
he  put  spurs  to  his  horse  and  disappeared. 


522  .  Norwood ;    07\ 

Eose  stood  like  one  dreaming.  Then  she  started,  as  if  to  go  tc 
her  patients.  Suddenly  she  stopped  and  turned  to  go  after  Agate. 
Then,  with  another  sudden  change,  she  started  to  find  her  father. 
All  her  settledness  of  heart  was  gone.  She  had  fallen  down  out 
of  the  clouds  to  her  nest  quite  near  to  the  ground,  and  began  to 
experience  those  gusts  and  whirls  of  feeling  which  sweep  the  lower 
levels  of  human  life.  T^^hile  she  was  thus  going  first  to  the  right 
and  then  to  the  left,  Hii-am  Beers  met  her. 

"  Well,  Miss  Pwose,  what's  up  ?  Ton  look  flustered  like.  I  hope 
you  ain't  takin'  on  'bout  Barton,  'cause  that  won't  do  no  good. 
"V7e  must  all  die.  You  know  what  the  catechism  says — '  Xerxes 
did  die,  and  so  must  you  aud  I.'  It's  a  fact,  and  can't  be  helped. 
But  I  dew  feel  bad,  after  all.  I  tell  you  Eose,  there  ain't  many  left 
that's  equal  to  Barton." 

"  Hiram,  Barton  is  not  dead !  Col.  Esel  says  that  he  was  seen 
m  Lee's  camp,  wounded  and  a  prisoner." 

"  Well,  now,  that's  wuth  hearin',"  said  Hiram,  greatly  excited, 
but  holding  in  every  sign  of  it,  as  if  it  was  a  sin  to  show  his  feelings. 
"  But  it's  a  pity  to  feel  bad  for  nothin',  I  swow  ;  if  I  ham't  cried 
every  time  I've  thought  on*t,  and  now  it's  just  so  many  tears 
throwed  away !  Well,  weU,  I  vum,  but  it's  jolly  !  that  is,  supposm' 
it's  true." 

"Hiram,  you  must  go  with  me  to  Agate  Bissell.  Barton  must 
not  be  left  thus.  Something  must  be  done  immediately  for  his 
release." 

The  glad  tidiugs  spread  joy  in  the  little  band.  Agate  spoke 
not  a  word.  She  stood  firmly,  listened  to  every  syllable,  her  face 
shining  brighter  with  each  confirmation,  and  then  stepping  aside, 
with  her  face  toward  the  woods,  she  stood  for  a  while  in  pray- 
er of  thanksgiving.  At  length,  lifting  her  apron  for  a  hand- 
kerchief and  wiping  her  eyes,  she  came  back  to  Eose„  with  an  in- 
tensity of  feeling  that  seldom  escaped  her,  and  put  her  arms  about 
her  and  kissed  her  forehead— "  Eose,  it  is  the  Lord  that  slayeth, 
and  the  Lord  maketh  alive.    Blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord !  " 

Alice  was  certainly  glad,  but  joy  had  but  poor  chance  in  her 
heart.  Like  plants  that  grow  under  shade  trees,  it  came  up  pale 
and  feeble,  and  could  not  blossom  into  laughter. 

"  Agate,"  said  Eose,  "  what  shall  be  done  ?  WiU  you  look  after 
my  men  ?     I  can  do  nothing  further  until  I  have  released  Barton  ? " 


Villacje  Life  in  New  England.  52a 

"  Child,  what  can  you  do  ?    You  must  wait." 

"  What  will  waiting  do  ?  Is  he  not  even  now  moving  down 
towards  those  hideous  Southern  prisons  ?  It  were  better  to  have 
died  outright,  under  the  bright  sun,  than  to  mould,  and  decay,  and 
die  piecemeal,  in  those  dens  of  cruelty.  No,  I  will  this  instant 
find  General  Meade." 

" Headquarters  is  moved,"  said  one  of  the  men;  "the  gineral 
has  gone." 

"But  I  can  overtake  him." 

"Rose,"  said  Agate,  "you  are  wild.  "What  could  General 
Meade  do,  if  you  did  see  him  ?  Can  he  stop  his  army  to  go  after 
one  man  ?     I  guess  he's  got  something  else  to  think  of." 

"  But  I  could  get  a  pass  to  the  enemy's  lines — I  could  see  Gen- 
eral Lee !  " 

"Why,  Rose,"  said  Agate,  rebukingly,  "this  is  downright 
craziness."  And  then  in  a  pitying  tone — "I  don't  blame  you, 
though  ;  and  if  any  thing  could  be  done,  I'd  encourage  it." 

"Standing  here,  and  seeing  all  the  difficulties  but  none  of  the 
favorable  chances,  will  not  help  Barton.  It  is  no  common  case, 
and  will  admit  of  no  common  action.  I  will  go  to  him.  There  is 
not  storm  enough  in  the  sky,  nor  water  enough  in  the  river,"  said 
Rose,  looking  on  the  turbulent  stream  below  her,  "  to  hinder  me. 
Every  thing  will  help  me ;  every  thing  will  give  way  to  that  cour- 
age which  fills  my  soul.  God  is  in  me.  I  know  that  this  purpose 
is  not  of  man !     He  who  kept  Barton  in  the  battle  will  keep  me." 

Agate  was  more  convinced  by  Rose's  appeal  to  God  and  her 
declaration  of  her  trust  in  him  than  bj  any  thing  presented  to  her 
reason.  The  evidences  of  piety  were  more  to  her  than  the  evi- 
dences of  her  own  judgment. 

"Rose,  if  God  has  called  you  to  this  work  I  don't  doubt  that 
he  will  open  the  way.  But  you  ought  to  examine  your  heart  and 
know  whether  you  are  following  your  own  aflfections!  And, 
though  we  trust  to  Providence,  it  should  always  be  in  the  use  of 
means.    1:^0 w,  let  us  sit  down  and  see  what  can  be  done," 

"I  can  go  to  General  Meade's  headquarters,  and  procure  a 
letter  which  will  give  me  access  to  General  Lee." 

"Tut,  tut — that  won't  do — never  in  the  world.  Barton  is  in 
Virginia  before  this  time,  and  Lee  oan't  help  him  if  he  wanta  to 
ever  so  much." 


524  Norwood ;  or, 

"Then  I  will  go  to  Virginia.     I  will  find  Ms  prison." 

"  Suppose  you  did — you  could  not  storm  the  prison.  They 
wouldn't  let  you  in  nor  Barton  out.  It's  pretty  much  as  they  say 
in  Kichmond  about  such  things,  I  guess." 

"  Then  I'U  go  to  Eichmond.  I  will  see  every  man  in  authori- 
ty. Agate,  you  need  not  discourage  me.  There  is  that  within  my 
heart  that  will  make  my  way.  I  will  rescue  Barton,  or  I  will 
die  in  the  endeavor!     I  can  do  any  thing  but  stay  here!  " 

It  was  now  about  the  middle  of  the  afternoon.  The  conference 
was  broken  up  by  an  unexpected  event.  Just  as  Agate  was  about 
to  reply  to  Eose,  in  came  Pete  Sawmill,  making  two  or  three 
jumps  which  a  deer  might  envy,  and  then,  in  a  transport  of  rude  de- 
light, he  tumbled  over  and  over,  and  roUed  on  the  ground,  as  an 
extremely  merry  and  jolly  dog  will  do  who  finds  his  feelings  far  too 
great  to  be  expressed  by  the  mere  wagging  of  his  tongue  at  one 
end  or  his  tail  at  the  other. 

When  at  last  he  had  reduced  his  superabundant  excitement  to 
a  more  governable  state,  Pete  informed  the  party  that  Barton  had 
escaped  ;  that  he  had  got  him  safely  into  good  quarters  ;  that  he 
had  come  over  in  a  wagon  after  a  surgeon ;  that  he  had  luckily 
stumbled  on  Dr.  "Wentworth,  who  was  promptly  going  back  with 
him ;  and  that  the  doctor  thought  a  nurse  had  better  go  out  too. 

Eose  said  to  Agate  : 

"  Do  you  not  see  that  I  was  led  ?  The  Lord's  hand  has  been 
in  all  this  strange  work." 

"  His  name  be  praised  !"  said  Agate,  whisperingly. 

Paul  Hetherington  had  brought  Pete  over,  taking  care  at  the 
same  time  to  fiU  his  wagon  with  such  comforts  for  the  wounded 
as  he  could  provide.  Jacob  Hetherington  remained  at  home  to 
superintend  the  descent  of  the  cattle  and  horses  from  the  moun- 
tain fastnesses.  Paul  excused  the  indifferent  quality  of  his  team 
by  explaining  that  his  best  horses  were  hidden  away.  They 
rode  briskly  away  from  Gettysburgh,  and  across  the  very  ground 
which  was  yesterday  held  by  Lee's  rear  guard.  As  they  pro- 
ceeded, Pete  pointed  them  to  a  field  with  scattering  shade  trees 
in  it. 

"  There  'twas.  There's  where  I  found  the  gineral,  under  that 
tree,  fast  asleep." 

Along  the  road  were  marks  of  the  haste  with  which  Ewell  had 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  625 

retreated.  Broken  "wagons,  dead  animals,  mnskets,  knapsacks, 
were  strewn  along  the  ways. 

The  sixth  corps  of  Meade's  army  had  closely  followed,  and 
were  yet  lying  near  Fairfield,  somewhat  impeding  the  journey  to 
Hetherington's  house.  "When  once  fairly  on  the  road,  Dr.  "Went- 
worth,  who  had  not  before  seen  Eose  for  more  than  a  few  mo- 
ments, said : 

"I  thought  it  likely  that  Agate  Bissell  would  come;  but  I 
am  glad  that  she  sent  you,  Rose.  I  have  hardly  seen  you  for  a 
moment." 

"  I  needed  no  sending,  father.  iJTo  one  would  have  been  per- 
m.itted  to  go  to  Barton  but  me.     It  is  my  errand." 

And  with  that  she  drew  from  her  bosom  Barton's  letter,  and 
gave  it  to  her  father  to  read. 

Dr.  Wentworth  read  it  through — read  it  a  second  time.  In 
spite  of  himself  the  tears  came  to  his  eyes.  He  put  his  arm  gently 
and  fondly  round  his  daughter,  and  said,  in  a  whisper : 

"  I  suppose  you  go  to  answer  this,  Rose  ? " 

"  Father,  if  he  only  lives— if  God  will  but  spare  us " 

And  with  that  she  laid  her  head  npon  her  father's  breast  and 
burst  into  tears,  and  wept  violently,  and  almost  convulsively.  It 
was  well.  After  such  high  and  long-continued  strain  nature  de- 
manded relief.  Rose  had  come  down  out  of  the  high  and  bright 
clouds,  and  walked  upon  the  ground  again,  a  woman,  full  of  hopes 
and  fears,  of  weakness  and  tears. 

Paul  Hetherington  sat  with  Pete  on  the  front  seat.  I  do  not 
believe  he  looked  around  once.  If  one  had  watched,  it  might 
possibly,  have  been  seen  that  his  large  and  grave  face  was  slightly 
inclined,  so  that  the  merest  glance  of  Rose's  agitation,  and  her 
father's  protecting  caress,  might  have  entered  his  eye;  but  he 
turned  his  face  square  towards  his  horses,  and  sat  immovable  till 
they  drove  up  the  avenue  of  venerable  old  cherry  trees  which 
lined  the  way  from  the  road  to  the  house,  trees  that  now  hung  full 
of  ripe  cherries  and  red  robins.  The  fruit  was  over  abundant. 
The  sun,  lying  low,  was  shining  aslant  through  the  trees,  and 
filling  them  with  a  kind  of  golden  vapor.  They  seemed  to  be 
tabernacles  for  birds.  Catbirds  miawed  and  jerked  their  tails 
nervously ;  robins  breathed  a  low  pympf^  or  were  wholly  silent ; 
cedar  birds,  jays,  brown  thrushes,  and  numberless  other  fruit- 


526  Nonvood ;  or, 

loving  birds,  fluttered  and  flew  as  tlie  wagon  went  on,  coming 
back  again  the  instant  it  bad  passed,  as  waters  open  and  sbut  to 
tbe  passage  of  a  sbip. 

"I  tbink,  sir,"  said  Dr.  "Wentwortb,  "tbat  tbe  boys  don't ^tone 
tbe  birds  in  tbese  grounds." 

"  Xaj ;  tbe  only  stones  wbicb  I  allow  to  be  tbrown  are  cberry- 
stones.  Tbou  art  aware,  doubtless,  tbat  music  batb  little  place 
among  Friends ;  but  it  is  brougbt  to  us,  even  as  tbe  propbet's  food 
was,  upon  wings." 

Tbe  dwelling -bouse,  of  dark  gray  stone,  now  stood  out  plainly. 
It  did  not  stretcb  up  ambitiously,  but  lay  broad  upon  tbe  ground, 
baving  tbe  expression,  not  only  of  roominess,  but  of  bospitality. 
Every  door  bad  a  coaxing  look,  and  eacb  window  said,  Come  in. 
One  migbt  searcb  in  vain  for  a  stick,  a  cbip,  a  sbaving,  or  a  straw, 
all  around  tbe  bouse.  Absolute  order  and  neatness  was  written 
upon  tbe  face  of  tbings.  Every  gate  stood  up  straigbt.  Every 
stone  in  every  wall  was  true  to  a  line.  IsTotbing  seemed  to  bave 
ever  fallen  down ;  notbing  was  ever  dropped.  Tbe  very  winds 
did  not  dare  to  send  tbe  leaves  npon  tbe  grass.  Tbe  garden  on  tbe 
rigbt  beld  out  its  brigbt  blossoms,  and  marsballed  its  rows  of  cu- 
linary vegetables,  without  a  weed  or  a  witbered  stalk. 

To  Eose,  wbo  bad  so  long  been  used  to  tbe  rudest  scenes,  and 
to  tbe  very  paradise  of  disorder,  tbe  excessive  neatness  on  every 
hand  produced  sometbing  of  tbe  impression  of  fine  art.  But  little 
time  tbey  bad  for  outward  observations. 

Martba  Hetberington  stood  in  tbe  open  porcb,  tbe  door  wide 
open  bebind  ber. 

"Tbee  is  welcome  home,  Paul.  Tbe  young  man  needs  tby 
friends.  I  fear,  Doctor,  tbee  bas  come  on  a  poor  errand.  Aligbt  I 
Is  this  bis  sister  ? "  said  Martba,  turning  to  Rose. 

"It  is  my  daughter,"  said  Dr.  "Wentwortb. 

Paul,  however,  explained  it  with  bis  eye.  One  look  sufficed; 
and  Martba  tenderly  helped  Rose  from  tbe  wagon,  and  gave  her 
in  charge  to  her  comely  daughter. 

"Rose?"  said  Martha. 

Two  voices  answered,  one  saying : 

"  What,  ma?  "  and  tbe  other,  "  What,  ma'am?  " 

Martha  Hetberington  smiled.     "  Is  thy  name  Rose  ?  " 

"  Rose  Wentwortb  !  " 


Village  Life  in  New  Midland  527 

"  And  this  is  Rose  Hetherington.  Surely  ye  should  like  each 
other?" 

Dr.  Wentworth  went  at  once  to  Barton's  bedside.  He  found 
him  in  a  low  and  sinking  condition.  Before  making  more  close 
examination,  he  gave  him  more  ample  stimulants,  together,  also, 
with  opium,  which  had  not  been  administered ;  and  the  stimulants 
only  in  a  gradual  manner. 

"  For  fear,"  Martha  said,  "  of  producing  fever." 

"  That  is  the  only  way  to  attack  fever — such  fever  as  he  is 
liable  to,"  said  the  doctor. 

Strong  beef-tea  was  prepared  for  him,  and  every  means  of  re- 
storing his  ebbing  strength  was  used. 

"  Had  this  wound  upon  the  abdomen  been  deep,  he  would  have 
died  before  this, — let's  see :  Saturday  night,  Sunday  night,  Monday 
night, — forty-eight  hours.  Had  the  intestines  been  sundered,  he 
would  have  died  within  twenty-four  hours.  Should  there  be  an 
inflammation  of  the  peritoneum,  I  should  fear,  in  his  exhausted 
condition,  that  he  could  not  stand  up  under  it.  Should  there  be 
only  a  local  inflammation  and  the  suppuration  of  the  wound  itself, 
there  will  be  hope." 

It  was  uncertain  whether  Barton  was  conscious  of  the  presence 
of  his  friends  or  not.  He  lay  with  half- closed  eyes,  either  dream- 
ing or  carrying  on  a  fevered  process  of  thought.  No  groans 
escaped  him,  but  sometimes  sighs.  Rose  stood  by  him,  outwardly 
calm.  But  who  shall  unroll  that  which  filled  her  heart,  as  she 
gazed  upon  Barton's  bloodless  face,  and  his  brow  whiter  than 
snow,  from  which  fell  back  his  black  hair  ?  His  face  was  thin. 
His  features  were  sharp.  The  whole  face  looked  old.  As  Rose 
gazed  upon  him,  she  momently  expected  him  to  speak.  She 
wondered  how  they  could  be  so  near,  and  yet  so  utterly  separated. 
She  would  have  given  worlds  for  one  look,  for  one  word  of  recog- 
nition. After  all  this  history  of  his  love  for  her,  should  he  now 
at  length  die,  knowing  nothing  of  that  deep  treasure  of  her  heart  I — 
die  by  her  very  side,  and  know  it  not  I — die  whUe  her  words  were  in 
his  ears,  and  his  hand  in  hers,  and  yet  not  know  their  meaning  I 

How  terrible  is  the  thunder — how  more  terrible  is  the  crash 
of  battle !     Yet  neither  of  them  is  so  awful  as  the  measured 
cadence  of  one  who  tells  us  that  our  beloved  are  walking  away 
from  us,  along  the  road  of  the  dying ! 
23* 


528  Norwood. 

Dark  is  the  night;  but  what  night  so  dark  as  that  of  love 
hopelessly  watching  ?  How  deep  is  the  unexplorable  sea !  But 
far  deeper  is  that  night  which  Hope  sounds  with  line  of  fear — 
sounds,  but  can  find  no  bottom ! 


CHAPTER   LVI. 

THE   QUAKER   HOME. 

CoMPAEED  with  the  labors  of  the  past  two  days,  the  anxieties 
and  excitement  of  Barton's  case,  brought  home  so  closely  to  him 
by  the  knowledge  of  Rose's  feelings,  seemed  to  Dr.  "Went worth  like 
rest.  But  in  a  perfectly  healthy  constitution  food  may  become  a 
partial  substitute  for  sleep,  and  enable  one  to  go  for  many  days  in 
continuous  activity.  It  was  not  poetical,  under  all  the  circum- 
stances, for  Dr.  Wentworth  to  go  out  to  Martha  Hetherington's 
table  that  evening  with  a  supreme  appetite.  It  was,  however,  a 
fact.  Nor  was  the  proverbial  good  housewifery  of  the  Friends  put 
to  shame  by  the  ample  supper,  by  the  glowing  neatness,  the  ex- 
quisite simplicity  of  every  arrangement.  After  somewhat  satisfy- 
ing the  more  urgent  craving  of  appetite.  Dr.  Wentworth  could  not. 
help  saying : 

"I  am  trying  to  see  what  it  is  that  renders  your  table  so 
beautiful,  without  ornament.  I  have  always  esteemed  the  family 
table  to  be  a  kind  of  altar,  a  place  sacred  and  so  to  be  made  as 
complete  in  its  finishings  as  m^y  be.  The  act  of  eating  is  itself  one 
of  the  lowest.  But  society  has  thrown  around  it  such  thorough 
associations  of  affection  and  social  enjoyment  that  we  scarcely 
perceive  the  going  on  of  the  very  thing  for  which  the  table  was 
spread.  That  a  refined  and  delicate  person  has  been  talking,  or 
sympathetically  changing  countenance  while  others  talk,  we  re- 
member, but  not  that  she  has  been  eating.  But,  if  you  will  excuse 
the  remark,  something  in  your  table  strikes  me  most  agreeably. 
There  are,  I  perceive,  degrees  in  neatness." 

His  host  replied : 

"Our  customs  disallow  ostentatiousness,  but  enjoin  order  and 
neatness.  That  is  the  one  channel  through  which  the  imagination 
has  play.  Music  is  not  in  vogue  with  us.  Our  amusements  are 
grave  and  frugal.  "We  do  not  choose  to  expose  our  young  people 
to  dangerous  vanities  by  the  use  of  colors,  that  so  largely  enter 
into  the  fascinations  of  the  world^s  people.  It  is  not  strange  that 
neatness  should  become  much  in  our  hands,  since  we  are  obliged 


530  Norwood ;  or, 

to  express  by  it  all  that  the  world's  people  do  by  forms  and  colors 
and  sounds." 

"  Ah,  I  see  ; — like  the  blind  man,  whose  ears  make  up  by  acute- 
ness  something  of  the  lost  sense.  One  might  expect  far  more  to 
be  made  of  neatness  when  the  whole  imagination  is  concentrated 
upon  it,  than  if  the  taste  were  distributed  through  many  channels." 

"High  colors  and  brilliant  garments,"  said  Hetherington,  "do 
not  harmonize  with  spiritual  states.  Colors  bring  the  mind  down 
toward  matter.  As  our  thoughts  reach  into  the  realm  of  holiness, 
they  instinctively  dispossess  all  objects  of  color.  We  never  imagine 
angels  in  blue,  or  red,  or  yellow,  but  always  in  white." 

"But  God  made  flowers,"  said  Wentworth;  "he  colored  the 
woods,  he  fashioned  clouds,  and  spanned  the  rainbow,  and  made 
gorgeous  sunsets." 

"True ;  all  these  are  of  the  earth — earthly.  They  are  not  to  be 
disesteemed,  since  the  Creator's  hand  hath  fashioned  them.  But 
they  are  not  the  symbols  of  holiness,  or  of  spiritual  elevation. 
Useful  things  are  not  alike  good  for  all  things.  Colors  are  for  the 
world  and  its  objects,  but  pure  white  for  the  saints." 

"  Since  you  and  your  children  are  in  the  world,  and  not  in 
the  spirit-land,  colors,  methinks,  might  be  suffered,"  replied  the 
doctor. 

"  Nay.  They  who  aim  at  the  estate  of  the  just  and  the  blessed 
are  much  helped  by  keeping  before  them  evermore  the  emblems 
of  purity.  There  is  need  in  this  world  of  every  help.  Simplicity, 
silence,  and  a  soul  open  to  the  invisible  light,  are  chiefest  means 
of  grace.  Some  seek  religion  through  gorgeous  ceremonies,  by 
which  the  senses  are  made  drunk,  and  the  conscience  stumbles  into 
idolatry ;  some  by  ordinances  that  usurp  the  place  of  God  and 
truth,  and  become  a  snare ;  some  by  forms  of  worship,  and  noisy 
services  of  music  and  ritual.  All  these  rouse  up  the  sensuous 
nature.  The  spirit  is  veiled  by  them.  They  hinder  and  exclude 
the  pure  light  of  divine  truth,  even  as  upon  windows  the  fantastic 
forms  and  colors  which  men's  hands  have  painted  there  throw 
back  upon  their  makers  their  own  fancies,  but  keep  out  the  light 
of  God's  sun." 

"I  conceive  your  view  to  be  largely  true,"  said  Dr.  TTentworth, 
"and  important.  But  it  is  partial,  in  that  such  abstraction  is 
possible  only  to  highly-organized  minds.     In  your  way,  you  fall 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  531 

into  the  same  error,  methinks,  that  the  greatest  thmkers  in  my 
own  church  have.  That  conception  of  hohness  which  was  easy  tc 
Jonathan  Edwards,  because  he  was  a  poet  and  an  ethical  genius, 
was  impossible  to  men  of  slender  intellect,  of  no  imagination,  and 
of  a  penurious  moral  sense.  In  this  unconscious  way  great  natures 
oppress  the  weak.  It  is  putting  children  to  the  stride  of  the  giant. 
It  is  like  teaching  conic  sections  and  the  calculus  in  primary 
schools.  Men  are  taught  to  feel  guilt  for  not  possessing  religious 
experiences  which  they  are  no  more  capable  of  than  Mrs.  Hemans 
was  of  Milton's  poetry,  or  Tupper  of  Homer's  epics." 

Hetherington  paused,  as  if  considering  the  matter,  and  after  a 
little  resumed : 

"  There  is  much  to  be  considered  in  thy  words.  Nevertheless, 
the  things  which  men  cannot  perform  teach  them  far  more  than 
the  things  which  they  can  easily  do.  The  w^hole  world  pulls  at 
the  body,  and  will  have  it  an  animal.  Therefore  the  heavens  must 
draw  upon  the  spirit.  What  if  Jacob  could  not  climb  the  ladder 
whose  top  was  in  heaven  ?  It  taught  him  a  lesson.  It  connected 
the  very  stones  under  his  head  with  the  clouds  above  him,  and 
taught  him  that  there  was  a  way,  unseen  by  mortal  eyes,  from  the 
lowest  thing  to  the  highest." 

At  last  Dr.  "Wentworth  had  found  his  man !  Of  a  nature  as 
large  as  his  own,  reared  from  a  standpoint  half  round  the  circle 
from  his,  and  so  antipodal ;  sympathetic  and  hospitable  to  others' 
thoughts,  loving  rather  to  think  with  and  compare  thoughts  than 
to  dispute ;  capable  of  seeing  things  from  other  people's  grounds, 
and  of  suspecting  what  was  the  absolute  truth  whose  partial  reve- 
lations organized  sects  in  the  world  ;  sincere,  earnest,  deep,  patient, 
not  anxious  to  parade  his  thoughts ;  sensitive  to  any  confidence 
which  might  subject  to  controversy  and  defilement  the  silent 
sanctuary  of  the  soul  where  God  revealed,  if  not  the  truth,  yet 
mighty  premonitions  of  it ;  carrying  an  undisclosed  life  of  medita- 
tion concerning  the  whole  mystery  of  human  life,  and  the  hope  of 
the  life  to  come  ;  heartily  in  sympathy  with  his  own  sect,  yet  not 
believing  it  to  be  more  than  a  sect ;  a  repressed,  loving  narture, 
but  loving  goodness  and  nobleness  rather  than  the  common  things 
in  himian  nature  ;  and,  above  all,  believing  in  God,  and  therefore 
not  accepting  the  golden  dust-specks  of  the  sects  as  the  whole 
mine,  but  grandly  waiting,  and  willing,  with  large  content,  to  wait 


532  Norwood;  or^ 

the  day  when  death  should  spring  up  into  Being,  Power,  Purity 
Knowledge. 

Both  of  these  men  were  loyal  to  their  sect,  but  larger.  Like 
vines  planted  in  a  garden,  they  covered  the  walls,  overtopped 
them,  and  climbed  into  the  neighboring  trees,  bearing  as  much 
fruit  in  the  great  common  highway  as  in  the  garden.  Such  men 
are  sometimes  called  unbelievers,  because  they  believe  so  much 
more  than  others. 

Great  souls  know  each  other.  Years  are  the  servitors  of  slower 
natures,  and  nurse  them  into  mutual  confidence.  There  are  cer  • 
tain  touches  that  fine  natures  know  instantly,  conclusive  of  all  the 
rest,  the  free-masonry  of  the  sons  of  God  ! 

What  was  sleep  compared  with  such  communion  ?  It  was  long 
past  midnight  before  they  separated,  who  never  separated  in  all 
their  after  lives !  And  in  those  hours,  alone,  in  confidence,  unob- 
structed by  a  fear,  they  spoke  of  the  deep  things  of  life,  and  moved 
together  over  realms  and  royalties  of  meditation  where  each  had 
so  often  passed,  a  solitary  traveller ! 

Kose  Wentworth  would  fain  have  watched  by  Barton's  side  all 
night,  but  her  father  forbade,  and  enjoined  sleep. 

"  I  am  not  weary,  father :  I  cannot  sleep  if  I  lie  down." 

"  That  is  the  very  reason  why  you  should  not  watch  any  longer. 
The  long  tension  of  care,  and  your  deep  anxiety  concerning  Bar- 
ton, have  wrought  a  super-excitement,  which,  if  it  goes  on,  will 
be  dangerous.  You  iwrnt  sleep,  and  here  are  the  means  of  pro- 
curing it,"  at  the  same  time  preparing  for  her  an  opiate.  "Your 
hands  are  cold,  your  head  hot ;  you  should  put  your  feet  into  hot 
water  for  ten  minutes,  and  then  take  this." 

In  the  morning  Barton  was  no  worse  ;  and  "  That  is  a  gain," 
said  the  doctor.  "If  when  I  return  to-night  there  is  no  sign  of 
peritoneal  excitement,  and  his  strength  is  kept  up,  I  shall  have 
hope.  But  he  will  graze  so  near,  that  if  he  would  only  look  over 
he  might  see  death." 

The  sun  was  rising  when  Pete  appeared  with  a  stylish  mare,  to 
take  the  doctor  back  to  Gettysburg.  Rose  still  slept.  It  was  ten 
o'clock  before  slie  appeared,  and  even  then,  for  a  while,  the  lethar- 
gic cloud  hung  over  her. 

If  Paul  Hetherington  had  found  a  friend  in  Dr.  Wentworth,  so 
his  wife  had  found  a  favorite  in  his  daughter.     Martha  seldom  mis- 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  533 

took  in  judging  people  ^hom  she  met.  If  any  thing,  she  was 
slightly  inclined  to  judge  less  favorahly  than  her  hushand;  but, 
then,  on  that  account  she  was  oftener  right.  People  helped  her, 
and  made  her  abated  judgments  true.  When,  therefore,  she  took 
Rose  at  once  to  her  heart,  it  was  a  compliment  which  Rose  did 
not  as  well  understand  as  did  Martha's  own  family. 

Little  could  be  done  for  Barton.  He  was  either  unconscious 
or  wandering  in  mind.  Martha  drew  Rose  from  him  as  much  as 
possible.     She  must  show  her  the  spring-house. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  said  Rose,  pointing  to  a  queer  stack  of  bricks 
under  a  tile  shed  close  by  the  house. 

"  That  is  our  oven,"  said  Martha. 

"  What— out  of  doors  ?     We  build  ours  into  the  kitchen  chim- 


ney " 


« It  is  the  way  of  our  fathers.     The  other  perhaps  is  more  con- 

venient."  ^  r  n  . 

They  walked  a  few  rods  upon  a  path  of  flat  stones,  carefully 
laid  down,  and  kept  free  from  weeds  and  grass.     Indeed  they  were 
more  like  the  pavement  of  a  hall  than  an  out-of-doors  walk.    It 
led  to  a  low  stone  house,  on  the  edge  of  a  slight  dell.     The  gables 
of  the  roof  came  over  so  far  as  to  form  a  cover  to  the  door.     A 
small  room  full  of  the  smell  of  butter  and  milk  first  met  them     it 
the  house  had  seemed  clean  to  Rose,  what  should  she  think  of  this 
work-room  in  the  spring-house?     Its  maple-wood    bowls,   the 
white-wood  dishes,  the  beech-wood  ladles  and  scoops,  the  pine 
tables  and  benches,  the  blue  ash  floor,  seemed  to  live  in  an  intense 
rivalry  with  each  other  which   should  be   cleanest.    The  tubs 
dreaded  lest  the  pails  should  get  an  extra  scour;  the  wooden 
spoons  bellied  up  with  all  the  conscious  pride  of  the  spoon  family, 
"  thanking  God  that  they  were  red  and  not  white,  being  made  of  the 
heart-wood  of  the  beech.    The  oak  bench  looked  steadily  over  every 
day  in  hopes  of  spying  a  speck  on  the  white  pine  table  and  the 
table  was  tickled  whenever  it  could  spill  somethmg  on  the  floor  that 
would  spoU  its  ridiculous  conceit  of  its  own  exceeding  whiteness. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  said  Martha  Hetherington,  with  more  anima- 
tion than  belonged  to  that  enforced  tranquillity  which  she  usua  ly 
bore-"  What  is  that  ?  Yerily  it  is  a  fly !  That  silly  girl,  Polly, 
has  left  the  door  ajar,  or  some  of  these  nettings  are  moved  m  the 
windows." 


534  Norwood ;  oVy 

The  fly  buzzed  and  bolted  out  of  the  opened  door  as  suddenly 
as  a  heretic  from  before  a  bench  of  bishops,  or  a  thief  from  the 
face  of  a  magistrate. 

"  He  knew  that  he  had  no  business  here,  the  guilty  thing ! 
That  fly  lies  in  wait,  I  sometimes  think,  and  when  I  come  he  al- 
ways disappears  ;  but  when  Polly  comes,  he  presumes  on  her  heed- 
lessness. Twice  before,  this  summer,  Polly  left  the  door  open,  and 
I  found  that  fly  here." 

Eose  was  delighted  with  this  excessive  neatness,  the  very  bril- 
liance of  cleanness. 

"  How  can  you  contrive  to  be  so  remarkably  neat  ?  I  never 
saw  any  thing  like  it  in  my  life." 

"  Ah,  child,  I  wish  thee  might  have  seen  my  mother's  spring- 
house!  That  tc<zs  clean.  But  she  was  ^m^wraZ^y  neat.  It  is  but 
an  acquired  virtue  with  me  !  " 

A  door  opened  out  of  this  room  into  the  spring-chamber.  The 
cool  air  and  the  creamy  smell  came  up  out  of  it,  to  Eose's  great 
delight.  Descending  a  few  stone  steps,  Eose  saw,  laid  in  solid 
cement,  stone  canals  or  troughs  running  around  the  whole  base ; 
and,  at  about  three  feet  above  them,  another  series  of  like  con- 
struction, supported  upon  iron  brackets  let  into  the  side  walls. 
Into  these  spring-water,  gushing  up  from  the  rock  within  the 
chamber  itself  (which  had  been  built  over  a  strong  and  unfailing 
spring),  flowed  with  a  gentle  motion  through  all  the  troughs, 
and  made  its  exit  on  the  farther  side.  Into  this  living  water  the 
pans  of  milk  were  set.  A  part  of  the  pans  were  glass,  and  a  part 
silver.  At  any  rate,  if  they  were  not  silver,  they  were  tin  polished 
to  such  brightness  as  Eose  never  saw  before.  The  names  of  twenty- 
five  cows  hung  above  their  respective  contributions.  Here  were 
"Crumple,"  "Brindle,"  "Queen,"  "Yiolet,"  "Daisy,"  "Sukey," 
"  Blackface,"  "  Fawn,"  "  Cherry,"  and  all  the  other  honored  names 
of  the  barn-yard. 

Next,  they  went  to  the  barn.  Such  a  sight  Eose  had  never 
seen.  It  seemed  to  her  eyes  more  like  a  vast  mansion.  It  was 
built  of  stone,  three  stories,  besides  the  cellars.  Built  upon  a  side- 
hill,  the  topmost  story  was  on  the  level  of  the  upper  ground ; 
while  side-hiU  roads,  at  diflferent  elevations,  led  into  each  lower 
story.  The  mows  for  hay,  now  weU  nigh  empty,  made  Eose 
dizzy  to  look  down  into.     They  were  vast  enough  to  hold  hay  for 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  535 

the  "  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills."  The  grain-room,  the  root- 
cellars,  the  straw-sheds,  the  mill-room — where,  by  water-power, 
roots  and  hay  were  cut  and  grains  ground;  the  harness,  and 
wagon,  and  tool  rooms — seemed  like  parts  of  a  city  rather  than  of 
a  barn,  to  her  eye,  accustomed  only  to  the  snug  and  small  barns  of 
New  England.  Every  where,  glass  windows,  with  external 
shutters,  were  provided.  The  wood-work  was  painted  as  in  a 
dwelling-house.  Besides  the  barn  proper,  there  were  lean-tos, 
sheds,  sheep-barns,  straw-barns,  cattle-sheds,  a  horse-barn,  and 
colt-pens,— until  Kose  was  fairly  bewildered!  Water  flowed 
everywhere,  spilt  over  nowhere.  In  one  corner,  the  water 
spurted  from  no  one  could  tell  where,  into  a  stone  tank ;  and, 
overflowing,  disappeared — no  one  could  see  how.  There  was 
water  for  each  cattle-yard,  for  the  sheep-yard,  for  the  colt-yard. 
No  half-rotten  barrels,  nor  leaking  wooden  troughs  were  seen  up 
to  their  knees  in  puddles  of  their  own  making.  Every  thing  was 
stone.  The  water  came  in  an  orderly  manner,  sparkled  and 
dimpled  in  a  quiet  and  orderly  way,  gravely  moved  ofi"  again,  and 
decorously  disappeared.  It  was  good  Quaker  water,  and  neither 
sung,  nor  danced,  nor  wore  profane  bubbles. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  soothing  and  restful  to  Rose. 
Nor  was  the  excitement  sufi'ered  to  slacken.  All  day  long,  were 
coming  down  from  the  mountains  the  returning  horses,  cows,  and 
oxen.  They  were  overjoyed  to  be  released.  They  showed  as 
much  excitement  in  returning  to  their  homes  as  if  they  were 
children  just  coming  home  in  vacation.  They  ran  around  the 
yards,  they  drank  at  the  stone  tanks,  or  horned  each  other  away ; 
they  smelt  of  the  walls  and  gates,  and  moved  about  with  a 
curious  excitement,  which  surely  must  have  answered  in  them — 
in  a  low  and  rudimentary  way — to  the  affections  and  domestic 
local  attachments  of  human  creatures. 

Even  more  exhilarated  were  the  horses.  It  was  deemed  best 
to  bring  both  cattle  and  horses  into  yards  and  barns,  for  a  few 
days,  before  giving  them  their  old  pasture  gi-ounds.  To  be  sure, 
the  rebel  army  was  gone,  but  the  loyal  army  were  not  wholly 
unversed  in  the  distributive  duties  of  the  quartermaster's  depart- 
ment. The  day  passed  slowly  away.  Rose  anxiously  waited  her 
father's  return. 

He  came  at  about  dark,  but  could  give  little  comfort. 


536  Norivood ;  or, 

"  It  is  well,  thus  far.  But  we  are  in  the  dark  respecting  this 
last  wound.  It  is  not  safe  to  probe  it.  "We  cannot  know  the  ex- 
tent of  the  injury  internally.  It  may  be  trifling.  It  may  be 
serious  to  the  last  degree.  TTe  can  only  wait  the  deTelopment  of 
the  case.  If,  in  a  week's  time,  no  other  dangerous  symptoms 
occur.  Barton  is  safe.  Meanwhile,  it  is  necessary  that  his  system 
should  be  held  firmly  under  the  influence  of  opium,  and  his 
strength  be  kept  up  with  nourishment  and  stimulants." 

These  were  days  of  weariness  and  of  trial  far  more  severe  to 
Rose  than  all  the  watching  and  service  of  the  hospital.  All  sweet 
excitements  nourish  the  body,  and  increase  the  strength  upon 
which  they  draw.  But  acerb  excitements,  in  which  half-hopeless 
fear  plays  at  battledore  and  shuttlecock  with  courage,  soon  fever 
the  soul  with  anxious  suspense;  and  suspense,  above  all  other 
elements,  is  the  very  poison  of  the  mind.  Rose  would  gladly 
have  stayed  by  Barton's  side  every  moment.  But  Martha  Hether- 
ington  would  not  sufier  it.  The  watch  was  divided  between  the 
three.     Little  there  was  to  be  done. 

Barton  remained  quite  uDconscious  of  what  was  going  on. 
Wliether  it  was  the  disturbance  of  the  brain  by  the  inflammation 
of  his  wounds,  or  whether  it  was  the  opium,  or,  more  probably, 
both  conjoined, — he  gave  no  sign  of  recognition.  Sometimes  he 
would  lie  with  wide  open  eye  and  mutter  half-audible  sentences, 
which  seemed  to  be  fragmentary  orders  to  his  men.  But  it  was 
like  a  trance  or  sleep-walking.  He  took  notice  of  no  questions — 
he  seemed  looking  into  some  distant  place,  and  to  be  separated 
wholly  from  the  persons  and  events  around  him. 

The  two  Roses — Rose  "Wentworth  and  Rose  Hetherington — 
came  together  as  naturally  as  two  drops  of  dew.  They  had  the 
true  conditions  of  friendship.  They  were  unlike,  and  yet  both 
were  true-hearted  and  deeply  imbued  with  moral  sentiment. 
Love,  whose  roots  do  not  reach  down  to  the  religious  feeling,  can 
not  be  rich  or  enduring.  It  is  a  summer  herb — not  a  shrub  or 
tree  able  to  seek  its  many  summers  through  many  winters.  They 
wandered  together,  talked  much,  communed  much,  and  began, 
before  they  separated,  to  love  much.  The  Quaker  woman  had 
looked  at  life  from  a  side  so  new  to  Rose  that  she  attributed  the 
freshness  and  novelty  to  some  originality  of  disposition  in  her 
friend.     On  the  other  hand,  the  Yankee  woman  amazed  her  more 


Village  Life  in  New  En(jJand.  53 •/ 

simple  friend  by  her  knowledge  of  literature,  of  art,  and  of  the 
great  outside  world. 

With  true  delicacy,  all  questions  were  forborne  in  regard  to 
Rose's  relations  to  Barton.  Every  one  in  the  household,  of 
course,  knew  that  there  was  love  between  them.  But  the  mother, 
the  daughter,  the  father  left  Rose  to  her  own  liberty  of  silence  or 
speech,  just  as  it  should  please  her.  Eose  loved  to  go  at  evening, 
when  the  cows  were  brought  from  pasture,  and  the  men  or  women 
milked  them.  One  must  have  been  little  conversant  with  country 
life,  or  very  deficient  in  sentiment,  who  does  not  know  the  enjoy- 
ments which  may  found  in  barns  and  their  surroundings, — among 
them  is  the  smell  of  grain  or  hay,  the  pleasure  of  watching  the 
faces  and  manners  of  spirited  horses,  the  peculiar  restlessness  and 
almost  motherliness  belonging  to  the  large-eyed,  good-natured, 
cud-chewing  cow.  Then  there  were  wrens  chattering  in  the  most 
vixenish  way,  and  swallows  gliding  in  and  out,  like  snatches  of 
black  sunbeams — if  there  were  such  things, — and  doves  that  went 
flapping  up  from  the  ground  to  the  roof,  and  then,  from  some  in- 
visible impulse,  discharged  themselves  into  the  air,  and  flew  head- 
long toward  some  distant  field;  then,  changing  their  minds, 
wheeled  about — some  bolting  right  up  in  the  air,  some  dividing  to 
the  right  or  to  the  left ;  and  then,  all  of  them  streaming  headlong 
back  to  the  roof  again,  circling  round  and  round,  as  if  it  were 
hot — a  dozen  dropping  down,  and  the  rest  swinging  once  more 
round  the  barn,  where  at  last  all  alight,  save  one,  which  flies  ofif 
to  another  building ;  the  rest  won't  go  to  him — and  so,  after  a 
little,  he  comes  to  them,  and  then  they  run  after  each  other — 
crooning  and  strutting,  for  all  the  world,  as  if  they  were  human 
beings,  in  gay  society,  instead  of  being  the  simple,  innocent  doves 
that  they  are.  One  could  find  simple  delight  in  watching  such 
scenes  for  hours.  Rose  found  them  tranquillizing,  too,  from  the 
contrast  with  the  cruel  scenes  to  which  she  had  so  long  been  used. 
She  compared  the  doves  to  cavalry,  and  laughed  at  the  ludicrous 
dissemblance. 

But,  with  all  that  was  winning  in  nature,  and  all  that  was  de- 
lightful to  Rose  in  this  great  Quaker  farm,  so  utterly  unlike  any 
that  she  had  ever  seen,  the  time  hufrg  heavily  upon  her  hands, 
and  anxiety  wore  upon  her  heart. 

At  length,   upon   Sunday,  Dr.    Wentworth,  after   considering 


538  Norwood ;  OTy 

Barton's  whole  condition,  pronounced  him  decidedly  convalescent. 
The  opiates  "were  no  longer  needed.  It  \ras  a  day  of  intense  ex- 
citement to  Rose.  When  will  the  stupor  pass  away  ?  Will  hia 
mind  come  out  of  this  eclipse  ?  Oh !  what  will  he  think  when  he 
first  recognizes  me  ?  The  hours  passed  on.  Rose  would  not  leave 
the  room.  It  was  noon,  and  Barton  was  very  quiet.  The  middle 
of  the  afternoon  came.  A  mortal  fear  stole  over  her.  His  mind 
may  be  permanently  affected  !  His  sufferings  and  hardships  may 
have  overstrained  his  brain !  Hours  passed  on.  Eose  stood  by 
the  window.  The  sun  was  descending  behind  the  mountain.  It 
poured  down  a  flood  of  hght  over  all  the  fields  near  and  far. 
Long  shadows  mimicked  the  shapes  of  all  things  and  turned  them 
into  burlesque.  Through  the  half-opened  shutters  the  light 
streamed  into  the  room.  It  fell  across  the  bed,  and  flashed  upon 
the  pale  face  of  the  sick  man,  who  stirred,  opened  his  eyes,  that  no 
longer  stared,  but  seemed  full  of  meaning.  Eose  came  instantly 
to  his  side.  She  sat  silently  gazing.  Barton  turned  his  eyes  upon 
her  in  a  wondering,  troubled  way.  Eose  kneeled  by  his  side, 
every  feeling  retreating  to  her  heart,  as  if  to  stop  its  beating. 
Barton  closed  his  eyes,  as  if  to  shut  out  a  phantom. 

"  Barton,  do  you  know  me  ?     Do  you  know  your  Eose  ?  " 

He  unclosed  his  eyes,  and  in  a  weak  and  feeble  manner  put  his 
hands  to  his  eyes,  as  if  to  brush  away  films  that  were  misleading 
his  sight. 

He  put  his  hand  timidly  out,  to  touch  her,  as  if  to  make  sure 
whether  it  was  an  illusion  or  a  reality.  His  hand  was  clasped  in 
both  of  hers.  She  leaned  toward  him.  He  felt  her  kiss  upon 
his  brow.     Slowly  and  with  difliculty  he  spoke  : 

"  Is — this — Eose  ? — my  Eose  ? — I  mean " 

"Yes,  Barton, — your  own  Eose;  you  will  live.  Barton — oh^ 
Barton,  live !  live!  "  She  spoke  with  an  intensity  full  of  anguish, 
for  a  moment  letting  go  restraint. 

He  lay  silent.  His  eyes  were  closed..  In  his  weakness  he 
could  not  keep  the  tears  back  that  would  break  from  under  his 
eyelids.  After  a  moment's  pause.  Barton  raised  his  eyes  to  Eose 
with  a  look  of  utter  imploring,  as  if  he  would  say, — "Do  not  let 
me  be  deceived,  nor  send  me  back  again  to  hopelessness." 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  gladness  and  love,  if  one  could  have  seen 
them  behind  Eose's  tears. 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  639 

"  God  has  been  very  gracious  to  us  both,  Barton.  He  haa 
brought  us  together,  and  nothing  shall  ever  divide  us  again." 

Seeing  how  greatly  he  was  agitated,  though  with  joy,  Rose, 
though  her  soul  longed  for  utterance  and  would  have  poured  a  tide 
of  golden  sentences  into  his  willing  ear,  refrained,  from  fear  of 
injury,  saying: 

"  Barton!  my  own,  and  forever  my  own!  you  are  too  weak — we 
must  neither  of  us  speak  more  now." 

He  strove  to  lift  his  head — he  would  have  put  his  arm  about 
her.  His  languid  eyes  were  yet  full  of  wonder  and  joy.  "With  an 
ineffable  smile  Eose  restrained  him. 

"  InTo,  Barton,  you  must  mind  me  a  little  while ;  "  and  then,  in 
a  tone  yet  lower  and  sweeter,  "  If  you  love  me,  Barton — if  still 
you  love  me — "  She  had  no  need  to  finish  the  sentence,  and  did 
not,  for  some  puff  of  wind  threw  back  the  shutter,  and  the  whole 
tide  of  sunlight  streamed  across  the  bed  and  fell  upon  Barton  and 
upon  Rose,  with  so  sudden  an  illumination  that  Rose,  in  her  high- 
-^xTOUght  joy,  looking  full  into  the  sun,  said — "It  is  the  blessing 
of  God !  We  are  accepted  of  Him,  Barton !  and  nothing  shall  put 
us  asunder !  " 

But  why  need  we  linger  with  these  lovers  through  the  long 
weeks  of  Barton's  recovery,  made  short  by  the  joys  of  love  ? 

Oh,  those  mountain  hours  !  those  days  of  July !  From  morning 
to  evening,  moments  sped  as  bubbles  on  a  mountain  stream,  that 
come,  reflect  all  the  light  of  heaven,  burst  with  ecstasy,  and  are 
followjed  by  other  bubbles,  gaily  dancing  to  the  music  of  the 
stream.  Little  medicine  do  they  need  whose  souls  are  radiant 
with  joy!    Love  was  more  than  medicine  and  better  than  food! 


CHAPTER  LYIl. 

THE   ELM  TEEE. 

Two  years  went  bj.  The  war  had  ended.  Lee  had  laid  down 
bis  arms,  and  Johnston  had  capitulated.  One  by  one,  the  scat- 
tered fragments  of  the  Confederate  army  had  surrendered,  or  dis- 
persed. Barton  Cathcart  had  returned  home  and  laid  aside  his 
stars  and  sword.  He  had,  after  the  wounds  healed  and  bis 
strength  returned,  joined  his  corps  again.  He  had  fought  through 
the  murderous  tangle  of  the  Wilderness,  hammered  at  the  en- 
trenchments of  Spottsylvania,  flanked  the  dangerous  works  upon 
the  IlTorth  Anna,  plunged  into  the  butchery  of  Cold  Harbor,  and 
lay  through  the  sickly  autumn  and  the  long  winter  in  the  trenches 
before  Petersburg.  He  had  had  part  in  the  last  grand  battles, 
stormed  Lee's  lines,  earned  every  step  by  desperate  endeavor, 
and  after  every  advantage,  found  Lee  still  firm,  defiant,  desperate. 
Xo  one  so  well  knew  the  incomparable  skill  and  bravery  of  that 
now  waning  army  of  Northern  Virginia  as  they  who  for  four 
years  had  fought  it,  and  now,  in  the  hour  of  its  supreme  disaster, 
were  grinding  it  to  powder  rather  than  forcing  its  surrender  ;  and 
when,  at  length,  cut  ofi"  from  its  lines  of  retreat  by  that  lion  of 
the  battle-field,  whose  ramping  cavalry  lay  crouched  across  his 
only  path,  his  artillery  gone,  his  trains  taken  or  destroyed,  his 
ammunition  expended,  his  chief  officers  slain,  or  wounded,  or 
captured,  his  men  reduced  to  a  handful,  overwearied  by  nights 
without  sleep,  and  days  taxed  to  the  uttermost,  Lee's  army  yielded, 
General  Cathcart,  and  every  other  brave  man,  in  their  admiration 
felt  that  the  heroism  of  Lee's  army  was  the  only  worthy  measure 
of  the  perseverance  and  bravery  of  the  army  of  the  Potomac.  In 
every  generous  bosom  rose  the  thought — "  These  are  not  of  another 
nation,  but  our  citizens."  Their  mistakes,  their  evil  cause,  be- 
longed to  the  system  under  which  they  were  reared,  but  their 
military  skill  and  heroic  bravery  belong  to  the  nation,  that  will 
never  cease  to  mourn  that  such  valor  had  not  been  expended  in  a 
better  cause,  and  that  the  iron  pen  must  write :  "  The  utmost 
valor  misdirected  and  wasted." 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  541 

But  all  this  had  passed  away,  and  another  year  besides.  It 
•was  in  October  that  all  Norwood  rejoiced  in  the  marriage  of  Rose 
and  Barton.  That  wedding  shall  not  be  lightly  dismissed.  After 
so  long  and  patiently  following  their  history,  it  would  be  a  slight, 
indeed,  if  every  one  of  our  readers  sliould  not  be  invited  to  their 
wedding !  The  town  made  this  its  own  wedding.  Every  motherly 
heart  in  I^Torwood  felt  that  she  had  a  part  in  marrying  Rose  to 
Barton. 

The  morning  of  the  loth  of  October  rose  over  old  Holyoke, 
not  with  the  fierce  fire  of  July  shot  straight  npon  its  stony  top 
and  woody  sides,  flushing  hot,  but  the  sun  came  up  tempered  and 
genial.  It  had  finished  the  chase  of  summer.  It  had  triumphed. 
All  the  fields  of  corn  yet  ungathered,  whose  loose  rows  were 
punctuated  with  yellow  pumpkms ;  all  the  reaped  fields,  all  the 
withered  stalks  even,  bore  witness  to  the  sun's  victory.  October 
is  the  month  that  crowns  the  sun.  Then,  he  moves  through  the 
gorgeous  apparel  which  natm-e  wears,  no  longer  a  warrior  fierce 
in  battle,  but  a  victor,  content  with  his  victories,  and  every  where 
shedding  abroad  the  tokens  of  his  royal  complacency.  The  days 
were  soft  and  hazy.  Even  at  noon  the  lenient  sun  would  not 
suffer  his  heat  to  go  forth,  l^ot  even  frosts  excited  his  displeasure, 
slyly  creeping  after  his  footsteps  at  night.  The  sun  reposed  all 
day  upon  the  gorgeous  hills,  spread  with  sumptuous  apparel. 
Trees  made  love  to  each  other.  The  chestnut  glowed  benignantly 
at  the  yellow-bronzed  hickory.  The  old  oaks  stood  yet  in  deep 
green,  unchanged.  Something  made  the  yellow  maples  laugh, 
and  something  made  the  scarlet  maples^  blush.  The  brilliant  am- 
pelopsis  had  climbed  into  the  cedars,  and  was  peeping  out  to  see 
what  it  was  that  nature  was  whispering  and  the  trees  were  blush- 
ing at.  The  dew  this  morning  magnified  itself,  and  showed  and 
shook  the  jewels  with  which  the  sun  pledged  its  love.  A  few 
birds  only  showed  themselves.  They  were  travelling  to  a  Southern 
land.  They  had  in  mind  another  summer  far  away.  They  tried 
a  single  note,  but  would  not  sing  their  ringing  love-songs  in  the 
broken  notes  of  autumn  voices. 

But  not  the  hills  or  mountains  purpled  with  color,  nor  the 
warm-leaved  trees,  nor  the  the  winking  dew,  nor  summer-seeking 
birds,  nor  the  soft  and  silvery  haze  that  hung  upon  the  morning 
like  a  bride's  veil,  nor  the  late-coming  asters,  that  would  whisper 


542  Norwood ;  or, 

of  summer  to  the  very  snow,  nor  the  great  elm  that  stood  droop- 
ing its  branches,  but  lifting  high  its  top  in  a  mighty  meditation 
of  grace  and  beauty — not  these,  or  whatever  else  glorifies  this 
bridal  wreath  of  nature,  seemed  half  so  sweet  to  Eose  and  Barton 
as  did  the  looks  which  they  gave  and  took,  the  low-toned  words 
linked  together  by  silence  more  full  than  words. 

On  the  night  before  this  morning  so  glorious,  Eose  had  said  : 

"  Come  early  to-morrow,  Barton — come  very  early.  I  shall 
walk  once  more  in  my  favorite  paths  in  the  garden  before  break- 
fast." 

Eose  slightly  blushed  as  she  added,  smiling : 
"  When  the  golden  gate  has  once  shut  upon  us.  Barton,  Eose 
Wentworth  will  never  be  seen  on  earth  again ;  so  you  must  be 
with  me  in  my  last  minutes." 

Barton  was  silent.  After  a  moment,  Eose  doubled  up  her 
little  soft  hand,  and  slowly  knocking  Barton's  brow  three  times, 
said,  demurely : 

"  Open  sesame — let  me  in." 

"  My  own !  "  said  Barton,  "  I  was  wishing  a  wish  that  I  am 
not  ashamed  to  have,  but  am  almost  ashamed  to  tell." 

"  Ah,  Barton,  the  time  has  come  when  silence  is  treason.  The 
thoughts  which  you  hide  are  the  most  precious.  The  shells  which 
the  sea  rolls  out  on  shore  are  not  its  best.  The  pearls  have  to  be 
dived  for.  Better  pause  while  you  can !  After  to-morrow  your 
life  is  mine.  I  will  be  a  naiad  to  every  rill  in  your  soul ;  and  if 
your  heart  were  deep  as  the  ocean,  I  will  be  a  sea-nymph,  and 
gather  white  corals  from  the  very  depths,  and  bring  out  hidden 
treasures  from  its  caves !     Begin,  then!     Tell  me!" 

"0  Eose,  mine! — the  lips  are  the  key  of  the  mouth,  and  I 
pledge  you  now,  for  my  whole  life,  that  yours  shall  unlock  my 
soul  of  every  secret  thought  whenever  you  shall  press  mine  and 
demand  it  in  love's  name." 

It  was  evening  twilight.  They  sat  alone  in  the  porch.  A  few 
late  blossoms  of  the  Chinese  honeysuckle  shed  down  a  trace  of 
perfume  through  the  air.  There  were  no  locusts  singing,  no  katy- 
dids, nor  gurgling  crickets,  and  yet  some  soft  sounds  I  certainly 
heard  ?  Not  birds,  surely !  I  think  it  must  have  been  the  plash 
of  one  honeysuckle  blown  against  another.  Yet  there  is  no  wind 
to  move  them !    I  hear  it  again !     Listen !    It  is  like  the  falling 


Village  Life  in  New  England.  543 

of  a  drop  of  dew  into  the  silver  lake  from  some  birchen  leaf!    N"© 
tluat  is  rude.     It  is  as  if  two  dreams  •  floating  in  the  night  had 
clashed ;  or  like  the  joining  of  two  prayers  of  love  on  their  way 
upward;  or— nay,  it  was  a  kiss!— pure,  sacred,  holy!     It  is  the 
soul's  symbol,  when  words  fail  it.    It  is  the  heart's  sigh,  or  inter 
jectioB,  when  it  has  a  feeling  for  which  there  is  no  expression! 

A  soft  cloud  had  hid  the  moon.  It  began  to  move  away.  Tho 
light  shone  out  again. 

"  Barton,  I  do  believe  you  mean  not  to  tell  me  after  all.  What 
is  that  shame-faced  secret!  " 

"  You  will  smile,  I  know.  But  I  feel  it.  I  want  every  one 
that  has  been  with  me  in  danger  and  trouble  to  be  present  in  my 
great  joy  to-morrow.  Colonel  Stanton,  who  befriended  me  when 
I  was^a  prisoner  after  Bull  Run,  has  come.  By  the  way,  the  war 
has  well  nigh  ruined  his  property,  and  I  have  been  of  help  to  him 
iu  saving  a  part.  The  Hetheringtons  are  all  in  your  house.  Eose, 
my  horse,  that  carries  a  man's  heart  in  him,  that  never  flinclied 
under  fire,  that  was  wounded  as  weU  as  I,  that  carried  me  along 
the  hardest  journeys  unflagging,  and  saved  me  several  times  from 
captivity, — I  want  him  near  me  when  I  am  married.  I  know  that 
it  would  to  many  sound  foolish.  But  no  one  but  a  soldier  can  know 
a  soldier's  feeling  for  a  faithful  horse  I  " 

"  N"o  one  but  a  soldier  and  a  soldier's  wife,"  replied  Rose.  "  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  being  ashamed  of  such  a  feeling.  He  shall 
stand  in  golden  shoes,  and  eat  the  plumpest  oats  out  of  a  china 
vase,  if  it  will  please  you,  Barton !  " 

"It  is  only  a  feeling,  but  it  is  as  strong  as  superstition.  Of 
course  it  is  not  for  his  sake,  but  my  own.  I  shall  feel  better  if  he 
stand  in  front  of  the  yard  where  I  can  see  him." 

It  was  time  to  separate.    ^ 

"  Come  early.  Barton.  I  shall  take  my  favorite  walk  in  the 
morning  for  the  last  time,  and  I  would  not  be  alone." 

The  day  broke  over  the  hills,  bent  evidently  on  being  present 
at  the  wedding.  It  came  in  golden  tresses,  and  in  silver  vapors, 
and  infinite  jewelry  of  dew,  and  it  lit  up  aU  the  world  with  joy  as 
it  came ;  but  Rose  and  Barton  forgot,  as  they  stood  in  the  arbor, 
that  there  was  any  body  happy  but  themselves.  Could  it  be  pos- 
sible that  there  was  any  joy  left? 

Dr.  "Wentworth  was  as  calm,  outwardly,  as  if  only  the  usual 
24 


544  Norwood ;  or, 

business  was  going  on.    His  face  shone.    His  voice  was  lower  and 
riclier  than  usual.     His  eye  carried  in  it  a  perpetual  benediction. 

The  great  mansion  was  vocal  in  every  room.  Guests  were 
present  from  the  east  and  west  and  south.  The  town  swarmed 
with  friends  come  to  the  wedding.  'Biah  Cathcart  renewed  his 
youth,  and  Eachel's  face  shone  with  unexpressed  thanksgiving. 
Hiram  Beers  was  glorious.  Why  not?  As  he  had  gone  to  Dr. 
"Wentworth's  to  live,  in  a  neat  cottage  built  expressly  for  him,  and 
to  have  fuU  charge  of  the  doctor's  stables,  barn,  and  place,  why 
should  he  not  consider  this  occasion  as  a  family  matter? 

Pete  Sawmill  was  triumphant.  Great  was  the  honor  and  glory 
that  came  back  with  him  to  IS'orwood !  The  story  of  his  simple 
affection  and  fidelity  was  known  to  all,  and  all  agreed  with  Deacon 
Trowbridge,  "that  Pete  ain't  much  in  the  intellects,  but  he's  got  a 
heart  as  big  as  an  ox."  And  nobody  was  surprised  to  learn  that 
Pete  was  to  live  with  Barton  Cathcart  for  life ;  nor  that  he  ap- 
peared on  this  morning  with  a  bran  new  suit  of  broadcloth,  and 
that  he  had  a  red  cord  sewed  the  whole  length  of  the  side  seams 
of  his  pantaloons,  and  that  he  wore  military  buttons  on  his  coat 
and  vest.  Pete  hankered  after  these  vanities,  and  it  was  not  be- 
lieved that,  if  he  was  pleased,  any  body  else  would  be  hurt. 

Rose  had  labored  long  and  often  with  Pete  about  his  besetting 
sin,  with  slight  amendment  of  it.  His  army  life  had  not  developed 
his  temperance  principles.  He  was  always  penitent  on  such  oc- 
casions ;  always  promised  to  do  so  no  more ;  and  he  never  did — 
until  the  next  temptation.  But  one  day  Pete  fairly  got  it  into  his 
head,  or  heart  rather,  that  his  conduct  was  a  grief  to  Rose — a  real 
sorrow.  Instead  of  expostulating  and  reasoning  with  him,  as  here- 
tofore. Rose  on  the  last  occasion  had  burst  into  tears. 

"  Oh,  Pete !  you  behave  as  if  you  cared  for  none  of  your  friends. 
I  am  ashamed  and  grieved  to  the  heart.  You  have  been  so  long 
with  us,  and  served  the  country  so  nobly,  and  saved  Barton's  life, 
and  kept  a  great  grief  from  us  all,  and  now  you  have  come  back 
to  disgrace  us.  I  can't  bear  it,  Pete  ;  I  can't  bear  it ;  "  and  Rose's 
tears  fell  fast. 

Poor  Pete  was  never  before  conscious  of  being  an  object  of 
such  special  regard  that  any  human  being  would  cry  for  him.  He 
was  very  awkwardly  distressed  for  himself.  He  shuffled  his  feet 
and  fumbled  with  his  hands,  and  felt  deeply  in  his  pockets  for  some- 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  645 

thing  that  was  not  there — a  good  resolution,  probably — and  blub- 
bered and  sputtered  in  the  most  distressing  manner,  till  the  whole 
contrast  was  too  inexpressibly  ludicrous  for  Kose,  who  covered  her 
face  with  her  handkerchief,  and  bit  her  lips  to  keep  from  audible 
laughter.  But  to  Pete  this  covering  of  Rose's  face  w^as  the  last 
aflliction.  He  thought  that  he  had  done  some  great  damage  to 
her,  and  he  exploded  in  an  extraordinary  mixture  of  crying,  con- 
fession and  howling,  with  promises,  which  astounded  Rose.  The 
poor  fellow  shook  all  over,  and  wrangled  his  hands  and  arms  about 
in  the  ail*  in  the  most  aimless  and  awkward  manner  possible,  and 
finally  bolted  for  the  door  and  disappeared.  He  brought  up  at 
Parson  BuelFs,  and  stumbled  headlong  into  his  study,  just  as  the 
doctor  was  writing  out  \\\^  fifthly ^  in  the  coming  sermon. 

"  I  dew  wish  you'd  giv'  me  somethin'.  Dew  !  if  you  please ! 
I  want  to  take  somethin'." 

The  doctor  thought  that  he  must  have  taken  something  too 
much  already.  But,  after  some  questioning,  Pete  broke  out  in  a 
medley  of  grief  again — quite  like  that  in  Rose's  presence,  but  not 
80  excessive. 

*'I  ain't  goin'  to  have  no  more  rum ;  it's  making  Jier  cry ;  and  I 
ain't  goin'  to  drink  any  more  rum ;  and  I  want  you  to  give  me 
soniethin'." 

It  was  evident  that  Pete  was  inquiring  after  the  temperance 
pledge,  and  the  doctor  at  length  became  satisfied  of  the  fact.  Ac- 
cordingly, he  drew  up  a  pledge,  on  the  largest  sheet  of  paper  that 
he  had  in  his  study  ;  and  thinking  that  it  might  be  more  striking 
to  Pete's  simple  eyes,  he  ruled  a  band  of  red  ink  about  the  whole, 
upon  which  Pete  looked  much  as  the  Israelites  did  upon  the  Red 
sea,  when  they  first  reached  it.  But  it  answered  the  purpose, 
Pete  made  his  mark,  and  was  faithful  to  his  new  promise.  A  few 
tears  did  more  for  him  than  much  exhortation. 

Throughout  the  great  -wedding-day,  Pete  carried  himself  most 
becomingly,  dividing  his  attention  during  the  ceremony  between 
Barton  and  Barton's  war-horse.  He  was  much  disappointed  when 
Barton,  after  the  ceremony,  did  not  mount  and  repeat  some  of  the 
brilliant  feats  of  horsemanship  which  he  had  seen  him  perform. 
But  supposing  that,  for  some  good  reason.  Barton  had  changed  his 
mind,  he  led  the  scarred  horse  back  to  his  oats. 

At  noon,  when  aJl  the  company  were  assembled,   and  every 


546  Norwood ;  or, 

body  was  merry,  chatting  and  chattering,  all  at  once  the  church 
bell  broke  out  into  the  most  musical  of  invitations.  To  be  sure, 
its  duty  was  to  ring  at  twelve,  every  day.  But  any  one  could  tell 
that  there  was  more  than  that  in  it  to-day.  Its  paternal  soul  had 
a  wedding  thought  in  it.  It  was  no  measured,  doctrinal  ring,  fit  for 
Sunday.  It  was  no  fearful,  funeral  ring,  thick  and  heavy.  It  was 
a  real,  out-springing,  merry  ring,  as  of  a  bell  that  would  like  to 
kick  up  its  heels  and  dance  on  the  green  with  the  best  of  them. 

Before  the  bell  had  done  ringing,  a  movement  was  seen  about 
Dr.  Wentworth's  mansion.  From  the  front  door  issued  first  Dr. 
Buell  and  a  brother  clergyman,  then  came  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Wentworth, 
and  then  came  Rose  and  Barton ;  (while  the  boys  that  were  peep- 
ing into  the  gate  nodded  to  each  other  and  said,  "  By  George,  jest 
look  at  that !  ain't  they  bunkum  ?  ")  and  then  came  Agate  Bissell, 
and  all  the  other  members  of  the  family  ;  and  after  them  flocks  and 
crowds  of  friends.  They  moved  down  to  the  great  elm  tree,  which 
hung  down  its  paternal  arms  about  them  and  filled  all  its  top  with 
blessings !  There,  at  length,  stood  Rose  and  her  husband,  under 
the  very  flickering  shadows  and  checkered  golden  light  that  had 
amused  her  when  a  babe.  "While  Parson  Buell  prayed,  all  the  birds 
in  the  tree-top  made  responses  and  said  amen  !  Then  there  was  a 
moment's  pause.  There  stood  the  noble  pair.  By  Barton's  side, 
stood  Will  Belden,  on  one  leg  and  a  crutch.  On  Rose's  side  stood 
Rose  Hetherington,  "too  pretty  for  any  thing,"  said  several  young 
gentlemen  near  by.  Then,  in  the  simple  forms  of  the  good  old 
times,  the  ceremony  proceeded ;  and  Parson  Buell,  at  its  close,  laid 
his  hands  upon  their  heads,  bowed  to  his  touch,  and  blessed  them  ! 
And  they  were  blessed  ! 

No  salutation  of  mere  ceremony  followed.  Barton  turned  to 
Rose  with  an  embrace  that  seemed  like  to  have  merged  her  into 
himself.  Rose  put  her  arms  with  full  love  about  her  husband.  For 
a  second  they  stood  folded,  some  words  they  whispered,  and  there 
were  few  dry  eyes  that  looked  on  them.  Even  Judge  Bacon  wiped 
his  eyes,  and  declared  that  "  it  was  remarkably  good,  positively 
aflfecting,  and  so  unexpected,  too." 

There  was  but  one  event  that  befell  the  party  which  filled  them 
with  astonishment,  and  that  was  the  sudden  and  unexpected  de- 
cease of  Agate  Bissell.  None  out  of  Dr.  "Wentworth's  family  even 
knew  that  she  was  ailing,  that  under  a  fair  appearance  a  hidden 


Village  Life  in  New  England,  647 

fire  was  iu  her  heart,  that  would  surely  take  away  her  name  froir. 
among  those  who  had  so  long  known  it  and  loved  it. 

She  had  manifested,  while  Rose's  wedding  service  proceeded,  e. 
tremulousness,  as  of  one  consciously  weak,  but  who  had  determined 
not  to  give  way  till  Rose  was  married.  But  Agate  could  hold  out 
no  longer.  Scarcely  had  Rose  received  the  salutations  of  her  own 
kindred  before  her  father  called  her  aside  and  her  husband  also, 
and  quite  a  stir  and  excitement  arose  among  the  crowd  as  Dr.  Buell, 
with  some  dignity  and  firmness,  as  if  repressing  a  nervous  tremble, 
approached  Agate  Bissell,  and  taking  her  by  the  hand,  walked  to 
the  very  place  where  Rose  and  Barton  had  been  standing,  and 
stood  before  the  excited  crowd,  who  wondered  that  even  at  a  wed- 
ding Parson  Buell  should  venture  on  such  a  bold  jest !  Then  came 
forth  Parson  Edwards  Dwight  Bigelow,  with  whom  Buell  had  many 
a  night  held  glorious  wassail  of  theology,  discussing  till  after  mid- 
night, whether  sin  was  born  in  the  nature  of  a  child  or  began  only 
when  developed  by  action  ;  what  was  the  nature  of  generous  and 
right  actions  anterior  to  a  saving  change ;  whether  conversion 
stood  in  the  act  of  choice  on  the  sinner's  part,  or  was  an  irresisti- 
ble and  eflScacious  influence  exerted  upon  him  db  extra.  Over 
these  and  kindred  savory  delights  they  had  dissipated  many  a 
night. 

There  stood  Parson  Buell  and  Agate  Bissell,  and  made  answer 
to  the  solemn  interrogatories,  and  she  gave  away  her  name,  and 
with  a  blush  as  tender  and  beautiful  as  if  she  were  just  seventeen, 
she  accepted  her  bridal  kiss  from  Dr.  Buell. 

Deacon  Marble  was  all  a-tremble.  The  tears  ran  down  his 
cheeks.  "  I  wonder  what  Polly  would  have  given  to  have  seen 
this  day.  I  guess  she  thinks  that  she  died  too  soon.  Howsom- 
ever,  she  couldn't  help  it.  Well,  well,  well — Agate,  you've  took 
us  in  this  time.  This  is  the  best  one  yit  1  I  dew  say,  when  I  saw 
Parson  Buell  a-kissin'  you,  I  sort  of  shivered  all  over.  But  you 
stood  it  beautiful.  But  no  merit,  you  know,  no  merit,  cos  I  s'pose 
you're  used  to  it,  eh  ? " 

Agate,  who  really  looked  queenly,  replied : 

""VThy,  Deacon  Marble,  my  husband  never  kissed  me  before  in 
his  life." 

"  You  don't,  now !  I  can't  hardly  b'lieve  that.  Dr.  Buell  is  a 
nice  and  strict  man.    But  courtin',  you  know,  and  engaged,  why 


548  Norwood ;  or, 

kissin'  is  accordin'  to  catur,  and  grace  too.  I  kissed  Polly  a  hun- 
dred times  afore  I  married  her,  and  you  say  that  Buell  never 
kissed  Agate  Bissell  before  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  believe  he  kissed  Agate  Bissell ;  but  he  never  kissed 
Agate  Buell  before !  " 

This  quite  overthrew  the  good  deacon— he  laughed  immod- 
erately, and  repeated  the  story  to  every  one  on  the  ground,  as  an 
instance  of  remarkable  wit. 

"  Fact  is,  I  meant  to  have  Agate  myself; — wasn't  spry  enough 
— lived  too  far  out  of  town.  Ministers  get  the  fust  pick  among 
the  gals,  any  how.    Polly  would  have  liked  it  amazin'." 

"  Which  ?  "  said  Hiram,  giving  him  a  nudge  with  his  elbow. 

"  Which  what  ?  " 

"  Which  of  you  two  would  Polly  been  glad  for  Agate  to  marry  ? " 

"  Good— good,"  said  the  deacon  all  in  a  twinkle ;  "  if 't  had  been 
me  was  marryin'  Agate,  and  Polly  had  been  here,  wouldn't  she 
have  had  enough  to  say  ?  Why,  she  would  have  said  '  my  hus- 
band ; ' — why,  stop— if  Polly  'd  been  here,  she  'd  been  my  wife, 
and  I  couldn't  a  married  Agate,  could  I  ?  Well,  that's  a  good  one !  " 
said  the  deacon  quite  exhilarated  with  his  mistake — which  he 
endeavored  to  explain  to  several,  but  somehow  failed  to  make  it  as 
fresh  as  when  it  happened  of  itself. 

Col.  Esel  seemed  to  have  charge  of  Eose  Hetherington,  and  not 
to  be  displeased  with  the  fair  Quakeress.  Gallant  Will  Belden, 
who  had  borne  Arthur  out  of  Bull  Eun,  hobbled  about  as  if  he 
were  one  of  the  family.  There  were  stories  about,  that  he  meant 
to  be  a  member  of  it  one  of  these  days.  In  a  moment's  pause, 
Mrs.  Wentworth  turned  to  her  husband. 

"  Ah,  Eeuben,  if  Arthur  could  only  have  been  spared  to  see 
this !     I  should  have  been  too  happy." 

Tears  ran  down  her  cheeks.  Br.  Wentworth  stood  silent  a 
moment,  and  then,  with  a  deep  sigh,  rephed : 

"  Arthur  is  here — sees  all,  knows  all,  and  is  happier  than  all. 
Kature  in  us  yearns  for  his  bodily  presence,  his  noble  sunny  face, 
his  ineffable  smile,  the  bold,  tender  eye;  but  grace  teaches  us  to 
think  of  him,"  said  Wentworth,  wiping  his  eyes,  "without  sorrow 
or  tears,  my  dear;  that  is," — beginning  to  be  conscious  of  the 
tears  running  down  his  cheeks, — "  without  any  except  the  tears  of 
affection — and  fond  memory " 


Villa// e  Life  in  New  England.  549 

The  rest  of  his  exposition  he  made  to  his  pocket-handkerchief. 

Mother  Taft  was  grown  very  feeble.  But  she  was  like  a  win- 
ter apple  that  grows  sweeter  the  longer  it  is  kept.  She  seemed 
like  an  overjoyed  child. 

'•  If  Taft  had  a-lived  to  see  this !  Eose  married  to  Barton — and 
then  Agate  Bissell  married  a  minister,  too — that's  a'most  like  goin' 
to  heaven  !  To  think  that  I  carried  Eose  'round  in  my  arms  the 
minute  she  was  born — and  a  sweet  child  she  was!  I  didn't  dream 
I  should  be  here  and  see  her  standin'  up  with  Barton !  May  be  I 
shall  'tend  her  babies  jest  as  I  did  her.  But  I  don't  believe  I  shall 
ever  live  to  see  them  married  off.  I  am  getting  old ;  but  some- 
body will  see  it.  I  hope  they  will  be  kind  to  them.  Kindness 
goes  a  good  ways,  you  know.  You  can  coax  a  dog  with  meat, 
you  know,  when  you  can't  drive  him  with  the  bone." 

And  so  the  kind  old  soul  went  on  talking,  without  caring 
whether  any  body  heard  or  not — her  own  voice  seeming  to  be  a 
comfort  to  her. 

Every  one  was  joyful ;  yet  it  was  a  joy  strangely  mixed. 
There  were  some  absent  who  might  have  been  there,  and  some 
dead  who  would  never  return !  But  it  was  a  grief  that  fitted  well 
with  joy,  and  deepened  it.     Tears  smiled,  and  smiles  wept. 

As  the  evening  came  on  and  Mrs.  "Wentworth  walked  toward 
the  mansion  with  Eachel  Cathcart,  she  said : 

"  Only  Alice's  presence  was  wanting  to  make  the  day  perfectly 
happy." 

"Alice,"  said  her  mother,  "  is  very  heart-sore.  Life  goes  wearily 
with  her.  But  she  has  determined  to  give  her  life  to  the  instruc- 
tion of  the  poor  black  children.  She  has  gone  to  Lynchburg, 
where  Ms  parents  lived,  you  know,  and  I  hope  she  is  happier  now."' 

But  the  people  are  dispersing.  The  sun  is  just  setting.  Some 
linger,  and  seem  reluctant  to  leave.  If  you  too,  reader,  linger 
and  feel  reluctant  to  leave  I^orwood,  I  shall  be  rejoiced  and  repaid 
for  the  long  way  over  which  I  have  led  you. 


THE   END. 


TF 


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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

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NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

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Wilmer 
101 


